Fur and Fathers
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Futurefic set at the conclusion of the Romulan War. Enterprise has taken part in the final battle, but survival has come at a price... Warning: Major character death. Do not read if this kind of story upsets you! This is the last story in the 'Kerriel' Trilogy, and it won't make much sense without the previous two. Some aspects of it may be controversial.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

_How am I going to tell her?_

Jonathan Archer sat on the deck of his ship and watched the last flickers and flashes fade from the mangled and almost unrecognizable metal structure that seconds before had been a Romulan warbird about to blow _Enterprise_ out of existence.

Somewhere in the midst of the wreckage were the shards of a shuttlepod packed with the C-4 explosive that had blown the warship to smithereens. There wouldn't be much left of it. As for the pilot, he'd be reduced to traces of DNA. If that much.

"The flagship's broken off the fight with _Columbia_, sir." Travis's voice was barely a croak. Whether this was emotion or exhaustion or due at least partly to the smoke that drifted through the bridge, there was no knowing. Quite possibly it was a combination of all three. His flying skills during the past two days had rewritten the books on what was or wasn't possible with an NX class starship; if by any chance any of them made it back alive he was one of those who'd earned the highest commendation Starfleet could award. If there was still a Starfleet in existence by then, of course. Maybe all of them would just be names in a list of those who'd fallen in a lost cause, the gallant losers in a battle they'd never had a hope in hell of winning.

Archer looked across at Tactical and the bent head of the officer manning it. For a moment the stinging haze of burning circuitry allowed him to see someone different there, but the next second Ensign McKenna looked up, his gaze blank with the horror that he couldn't allow himself to feel yet. "The whole Romulan Fleet's disengaging, sir. I think – I think they're retreating."

_They're retreating._ The words sank into his brain like rocks dropped into the Mariana Trench, and sank with hardly a ripple.

He couldn't feel anything, because there was too much to feel. He was battered, blinded, broken. He wanted nothing more than to cease to exist. Living had become a burden he could no longer carry.

_How am I going to tell her?_

* * *

He went first to Engineering. Trip was knee-deep in organizing repair teams, prior to tackling the biggest repair job himself. The ship was dead in the water. After the beating they'd taken, it was a miracle that they still had life support, but the emergency back-up would hold for a while. In the meantime, if they still wanted to be considered part of the Coalition fleet they had to get themselves back into a viable state, pronto. The retreat could, after all, be a ruse. The Romulans could have withdrawn just to regroup and resupply, planning to re-materialize and recommence hostilities just as the battered Coalition forces dropped their guard. It would be an act of the supremest folly to relax for a moment; far better to use what might only be the briefest of breathing spaces to patch up the damage and get ready to fight again.

Trip acknowledged his presence with barely a nod in between issuing a steady stream of commands. Whether there was anything else in that blue glance he couldn't tell. Tucker was almost as battered as the ship, soot-streaked and scorched and bloody; God alone knew what was keeping him on his feet after the past forty-eight hours. If he knew, he was handling it the only way he could right now. If he didn't, telling him would only add one more burden he might not be able to bear on top of everything else.

Archer stumbled out again.

He went to the Control Center. T'Pol was there still. The data banks that had served them so well in the hunt for the Xindi had been pressed into service against the Romulans. The screens told the stories in unflinching detail. She'd kept him updated on the big picture right from the start of the battle, enabled him to work with tactical officer and helmsman to keep the ship where it was most needed, to do the most damage at the least cost, because outnumbered as they were it was no time for death-or-glory charges. _Enterprise_ had been fitted with the most up-to-date armaments Starfleet could provide, but the ship had been up against enemy vessels that could outmaneuver and outgun her in a straight fight, so her fighting had been a desperate, opportunist thing of fire, turn and flee, losing herself among the other battles and hunting for targets she could take by surprise. It hadn't been heroic, but the situation needed live fighters rather than dead heroes. The Vulcan's ability to make swift, precise, logical assessments of a situation that changed every second had been an invaluable asset, releasing the officer manning Tactical to concentrate utterly on dealing out destruction with whatever weapons were appropriate to the situation she revealed. Without it, he seriously doubted whether the ship would have survived the first hour of combat. Now even she was showing the strain of those two interminable days. Her face was ashen with weariness, and as she turned from the screen that had shown her the fate that had overtaken the warbird that should have killed them all, she looked at him with an expression he was too exhausted to decipher.

Almost every ship the Coalition could muster had been assembled here at Cheron, blocking the advance of the Romulan battle fleet in full order. For the best part of two days they'd hammered the hell out of one another. The Starfleet ships had fought like tigers, desperate with the knowledge that they'd have to commit virtually all their strength if they wanted to beat this tide of enemies. If they fell, Earth would fall. Humanity would become just another notch on the Romulans' tally-stick of subjugated species. A like fate awaited the Vulcans, the Andorians and the Tellarites. They, too, had everything to lose, and they fought with identical desperation.

It had been bloody, as battles always are: strike and counterstrike, with no attention to spare for the uncounted dogfights raging around them, no opportunity to acknowledge the deaths of friends and comrades or the costly victories that tore one hole at a time in the ranks that advanced, pressing ever inwards with merciless determination. They lost count of time, because experiencing time was a luxury. They lost the ability to feel weariness, because weariness slowed the mind and a slow mind was a flaw in the defenses that _must_ hold. They lost the ability to eat, because adrenaline diverted all the functions away from the digestive system and their bodies were unable to feel hunger. Thirst intervened occasionally, slaked with water brought round by non-combatants. All else was submerged in a struggle for survival as primeval as anything fought out in Neanderthal cave-dwellings. Defeat was unthinkable, therefore they did not think of it.

But now, in what might be just a pause between the first battle and the next – and however many it took, they would go on fighting – it was no longer possible to stave off the realities of combat. During the last of uncounted exchanges during the battle, _Enterprise _had taken damage that had finally reduced her to a wallowing, defenseless hulk. They'd lost warp drive and then weapons, and the warbird that had pursued and raked them had come about around a wreck that had momentarily blocked its aim, arming up for the final blast that would take them out of the sky.

Then...

He leaned against the wall of the turbo-lift. He couldn't remember how he'd got into it. He wanted to cry, to scream, to howl, but he didn't remember how to. He couldn't even remember how to feel.

He was the captain, God damn it. He should be doing … _something._ Giving orders, something, anything, but he couldn't imagine what. He fell to his knees and retched, but nothing came up except a little greenish acid.

The Armory. He didn't know how he'd got there, but wished he hadn't come. The place was an utter mess. Even its reinforced walls hadn't saved it from the devastation wreaked on the ship. The weapons racks were empty, the floor slippery with blood. A few bodies had been shoved to one side, just so much wreckage to be dealt with at a later time. A couple of crewmen whose names he couldn't remember were trying to repair circuits that must have overheated and burned out. One of them had an arm so badly broken it might have to come off. Some others were trying to repair a photonic torpedo that must, at some time in the battle, have been put by as defective, while yet others were struggling to construct spatial torpedoes out of old spare parts. That could mean only one thing: the weaponry was down to one faulty modern torpedo, if they could get it working in time, and a few clapped-together outdated Triton-class missiles. Hell, if they'd had rocks on board ship these guys would be lining up to throw them, if that's all they had left. They hadn't noticed his presence and he didn't speak, just stared blankly at the chaos and thought that Malcolm would break his heart to see it, except that he'd be more interested in the fact that his team was still working, still fighting, still trying to be a credit to him. Not that he'd say much. Just that stiff British nod of approval that conveyed so much more than it said. _Jolly good show. _

He couldn't get into sickbay to get an idea of the losses. The casualties were overflowing into the corridor, piled on mattresses that had been hurriedly lugged out of crews' quarters. The air was foul with the stench of blood and burned flesh. Groans and screams came from those who were still awaiting treatment, a number that was being added to by the moment as more wounded were carried in from those areas that had been battered by the warbird's strikes, and shots from others before it. Ensign Cutler from Exobiology was doing the triage in the corridor. She was filthy with blood, but her hands were steady and capable. One of the newcomers from Astrophysics whose name he couldn't remember was helping her.

On the mattress nearest his feet one of the MACOs was dying. His stomach was ripped open clean across. He was still conscious, but he made no sound, just waited quietly. Hayes would have been proud of him.

_We're not a military ship. We're explorers. _He rolled against the wall, laughing aloud. _Get out there and make friends, Jonathan. They're all just dying to meet us. Or maybe it'll be just us who are dying to meet them._

But she wouldn't be in sickbay anyway. Not now. Not under these conditions. Scenes like these would be the last thing she'd need right now.

Maybe she already knew.

Maybe she didn't.

How was he going to tell her?

* * *

Of course.

Where else would she be?

His unsteady feet took him down the echoing corridor. Some of the wall panels were buckled, but by and large this part of the ship had survived pretty well.

This was the room. He looked at the chime. _I, Captain Jonathan Archer, by the power invested in me..._

He'd never seen Malcolm's usually shuttered face so utterly open and unguarded as it had been on the day when the ship's communications officer finally became Mrs. Hoshi Sato-Reed. His grey eyes had been so luminous with love that half of the female guests had dissolved into tears. The only sadness of the occasion was that the happy couple hadn't been able to remain as members of _Enterprise'_s crew; Starfleet regulations forbade it. After a farewell party that launched them on their honeymoon they'd taken up jobs working for HQ and according to the friends with whom they still kept contact (or at least Hoshi did, her husband being far less inclined to chatty conversations) they had been blissfully happy.

War had changed everything. An experienced tactical officer was an asset the ship needed as she'd never needed one before; Malcolm had materialized like a genie even before the lamp had been rubbed, taking up residence in a guest suite and slipping back into his place as head of Tactical as though he'd never been away, with not a single voice raised in complaint. On previous forays he'd come alone. They hadn't bargained on his bringing his wife along on this one, but she was apparently part of the package. Hoshi had turned stubborn and Malcolm had said she had to be humored. The reason for this was pretty evident by this time. Trip had laughed. "Gee, you two sure didn't waste your last home leave!"

A warship wasn't the place for a pregnant woman.

She wouldn't leave. And she was still a damned good linguist. They might yet need one, even if her belly didn't let her sit nearly as close to her console as she used to. They couldn't afford to be choosy, to spare the weak and vulnerable.

Someone rang the chime. It might have been him, but he wasn't sure.

"Come."

He tried to work out from the sound of her voice whether she knew. He couldn't.

He hit the door's 'open' button instead.

She was sitting on the bunk. For a moment he wondered why she wasn't in uniform, but then he remembered that she was no longer a member of his crew. And the standard uniform would never have accommodated that bulge in her previously slender form.

Malcolm had loved every centimeter of her swelling stomach. For a man who'd been as close as a clam for all those years, impending fatherhood had dragged him out of his shell big time. Late one evening, as they'd raced to the battle, he and Trip had joined the captain in the ready room, and over a couple of glasses of something alcoholic the words had spilled out of him. Jon and Trip had listened, dumbfounded and disbelieving, laughing and envious. The happiness, the plans, the dreams. _Once we've won the war._ Man, was Malcolm going to be the world's most doting Dad.

_Once we've won the war._ It wasn't conceit; Reed was a realist before anything else. He could sum up as well as any man breathing what the odds were. It was as though he'd simply blanked out the possibility that they could be defeated. Or perhaps he couldn't function any more if he let himself remember it. Whatever it was, they weren't going to argue. They were already inked in as godfathers to the most cherished baby ever to be brought into the world. _Once we've won the war._

She was looking at him. How often during his off-duty hours had Malcolm lain on the bunk with his head on her lap, reverently kissing that bulge, watching the mysterious movements ripple across her abdomen? At one point during that memorable evening he'd talked of seeing something that was definitely a tiny foot, astonishingly clearly outlined for just a moment. In that instant he'd seemed to his friends to be perilously close to tears.

Her eyes saw through her ex-captain now as though he were made of glass. Odd, he'd never thought since those long-ago days back in Brazil how beautiful her eyes were.

There hadn't been time for farewells. Even the shuttle had been taken without permission. There hadn't been time for that either. The cry that the launch bay door had opened had been just one more in a hail of noises as the bridge exploded into a smoke-filled hell of rupturing panels and shorting electrical circuits. He'd hardly understood what was going on until the tiny craft sped towards the looming warbird, timing its run with deadly precision for the moment the shields dropped to allow it to fire.

_"Tell Hoshi –"_

The fireball had drowned everything. It had virtually blacked out the screen as the external camera sensors hurriedly dimmed to compensate for the glare.

"No," she said softly.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

It was over.

The war was over.

Archer stepped out of the shuttle and looked around him as if expecting everything to have changed. The sun shouldn't be shining in a cloudless sky; the sea shouldn't be sparkling and blue. The warm air pushed at his face, so that his short, light-brown hair lifted gently in a way that was a part of being back on Earth that he'd forgotten.

Duty beckoned. There was still an incredible amount of work to be done. An event this colossal had taken its toll of more than the people who'd fought in it. The world it had left behind needed to have adjustments made. Starfleet would still be patching itself up years from now, but at least it seemed likely that they would have the breathing space in which to do so. Those cautious verbal approaches from the Romulans, proposing the establishment of something to which they referred as a_ Neutral Zone_, suited both parties. As long as both the Coalition and the Romulans were willing to respect that zone, peace – with luck – would prevail. Doubtless after being repulsed so bloodily and at such high cost, even the Romulans needed to lick their wounds for a while. For a moment he even felt a dim and weary surprise that after all the death and destruction no one knew even now what the bastards looked like.

He felt as though he was inside a bubble of glass, watching others talk and act outside it as if the things they said and did didn't have anything to do with him. Nothing seemed quite real any more. Perhaps it never would, he thought bleakly. Perhaps he'd left something out there, something he'd never find again. He didn't know whether he hoped or feared that the funerals would be real.

It had been decided that those whose sacrifice had bought Earth's people their continued freedom should be brought home and interred there. The other species had made their own arrangements, and of course a considerable number of the dead had been beyond retrieval. Nevertheless there were ghastly rows of coffins – rows and rows and rows of them, identical right now beneath the Starfleet logo. A huge area of land would have to be given over to the creation of an appropriate cemetery to contain them all.

He knew that quite a considerable number of them contained significantly less than a whole cadaver. Some of his own crew had been reduced to body parts that could only be identified by their DNA. Still, as long as anything at all remained that could be buried, a coffin had been provided. If the grieving relatives derived comfort from imagining that what this contained was a whole body, then they were not disabused.

Only one was completely empty, save for an immaculately folded blue uniform with a lieutenant's rank pips on it.

On that thought he turned away from his original course and walked rapidly towards the medical center.

* * *

"Captain Archer!" The elderly doctor stepped backward in momentary surprise and then forward again, beaming. "It's an honor to meet you, sir!"

"Thank you." At least he could still remember his manners; the glass bubble had left him that. "I've come to see Mrs. Sato-Reed. I believe she was brought down here yesterday."

"Yes, indeed." The smile faded. "She's perfectly safe and well. In body, that is."

"I'd like to see her." His voice was gentle, but the edge was not far below the surface. He was too aware of time pressing on him.

"Certainly, certainly. Though you know she already has a visitor?"

"I didn't, but I'm not surprised." He followed through the building, losing himself in the airy, echoing corridors. Hoshi's parents would be flying in from Japan. Maybe they were already here. If it was either of them with her he'd make his excuses and leave – fast.

At last the doc turned and activated a photocell door control panel. "Here we are." Murmuring something about having other patients to check on, he politely took his leave.

The room was sunny, though a considerately drawn curtain shaded the top end of the bed. The cool, conditioned air was perfumed by the riot of flowers that sat in several vases on a cupboard. Maybe she knew they were there, maybe the scent had reached her when they were brought in. There was no knowing.

She was lying in the bed, just as she'd lain on the bed in her quarters, left there perforce because Sickbay was filled and overfilled with those for whom Phlox's skills could make a difference. To all intents and purposes she was awake. The doctor had told him that bio-scans suggested that she was experiencing distinct periods of wakefulness and sleep. But returning to full consciousness would mean being faced with something that she couldn't bear, and so her brain simply wasn't permitting it to happen. At least, that was the best theory they could come up with. Captain Archer, who'd been the one to look into those eyes while he told her, didn't have the luxury of disbelieving this explanation, but nevertheless a nagging doubt persisted. The stare hadn't begun after he told her; it had been waiting for him when he came in…..

She did indeed have a visitor. But it wasn't either of her parents; it was Trip.

Archer hesitated. There was an odd intimacy in the scene; Tucker was seated beside the bed, holding one small, lax hand in his far larger one and talking to her softly. There was an almost caressing note in his voice that suggested what he was saying was private.

"Now here's the cap'n come to see ya, Hosh'," the chief engineer continued, glancing up at the opening of the door. "I know you think you can just deaf me out, but just 'cause you're not on _Enterprise_ any more doesn't mean you can ignore a senior officer, right?" He gave the hand a squeeze, and laid it gently on the bedding, where it lay motionless, a fallen white flower. "Be with you in just a sec."

"Nothing?" The low voiced question was virtually rhetorical as Trip joined him by the door.

A shake of the head was the only answer. He noticed irrelevantly that there were one or two silver hairs among the fair. It ought to have been shocking, but he was too tired to feel shock about anything, and the bubble wouldn't let him care. He had a number of his own by now, but then he was pushing fifty.

"Phlox said he'd come by later, when he's done supervisin' the last casualties off the ship." Trip rubbed wearily at shoulder muscles that must still be stiff. "I know I shouldn't be here, with everything there is to do. The docs say she most likely doesn't hear a word I'm sayin' anyway. But I just get the feelin'…."

Yes. As if he hadn't enough responsibilities already, Trip had taken the armory department under his wing too, probably out of some sentimental feeling that his pal would want him to look after them for him. And that meant without saying that that 'duty of care' would extend to Hoshi as well. Malcolm would have been at her bedside in every moment off duty, making himself ill with worry and grief. But then Malcolm was the reason she was here, under the ceaseless and passionless supervision of the machines that monitored her every breath. He'd taken her away with him.

Catatonic shock.

On top of everything else that had happened, Archer just couldn't handle it. He was terrified that if he let it be real the glass would shatter. If it did, he'd never be able to cope. He'd shatter too, into a million bleeding fragments.

The baby was fine. Phlox had assured him of that. The pregnancy only had a few weeks left to run. Maybe the birth would bring her back if nothing else would. If not, a foster family was standing by.

_Bloody hell, NO! _He could hear the anguished bellow as clearly as if Malcolm had still been alive to voice it.

He found himself standing by the bed. Hoshi was awake, or at least she looked as if she was. He knew that if he moved to intercept her steady gaze, fixed lifelessly on the opposite wall, she'd stare straight through him.

_"Tell Hoshi –"_

In a more deliberate echo of his experience with Trip in Shuttlepod One, the tactical officer had left a small packet of recordings to be passed on to his wife if he died. The dates showed that they'd been done after the outbreak of the war, and the latest had entries from the last couple of weeks. The captain hadn't even been tempted to listen to any of them. He'd discussed with Phlox what might be the outcome of playing them to Hoshi – assuming she could hear – and the doctor had been doubtful. The gist of such messages would doubtless reinforce what had driven ex-Ensign Sato into catatonia in the first place.

He sat down in the chair Trip had just vacated and took up the still hand. The gold band on the third finger was engraved with lettering. Carefully he turned her hand so he could read what it said.

_'Semper fidelis.'_

"'Always faithful.'" Trip was leaning against the wall by the door, his eyes red-rimmed. "Kinda sums him up, doesn't it?"

Archer said nothing. It wasn't the moment to recall Malcolm in the brig, guilty and faithless. He shouldn't be remembering it himself. It was the bubble that was making him do such a terrible thing.

"Oh, and one more thing." It was said without any change of inflection. "I want to go public about me and T'Pol."

The glass quivered ever so slightly. "Is there any particular reason?"

"Just that I'm tired of hidin' and lyin'. That I'm sick to the teeth of hidin' my marriage like it's somethin' I'm ashamed of. I want to be able to go out in public wearin' my weddin' ring without givin' a damn what Starfleet and the High Command think. I want to be able to call T'Pol 'Mrs. Tucker' without havin' to look around to make sure nobody's listenin' first."

The chief engineer pushed forward off the wall and continued. "I know what you're gonna say. I know Terra Prime hasn't gone away. I know with the war and everything a lot of people are gonna be more scared than ever of 'aliens.' But on the other hand, if the Vulcans hadn't come in on our side, Earth'd be a Romulan outpost by now. An' if that's not enough to change people's perceptions then I don't think anything will – and frankly, I'm not prepared to wait anymore."

"This isn't a good time."

"No, very likely it's not. But as far as I can see, there's never gonna _be_ a good time as far as the High Command is concerned. An' I don't care if they think I'm just takin' advantage of the chaos either, 'cause that hasn't got a damned thing to do with it. I'm just tired of it all, Jon. We played ball, we kept it secret, and where did it get us? It suits everybody but us just fine. Well, that's over. If we have to leave the ship, that's a price I'm prepared to pay. I just thought I'd tell you that so you're not surprised when it happens. Now I'm gonna get back to the ship and see how they're gettin' on with the repairs." He walked back to the bed, bent over and kissed Hoshi on the forehead. "I'll be back to talk to ya soon, sweetheart." Then he nodded at his captain and left the room.

Behind him, Archer stared blankly at Hoshi, who stared blankly at the wall.

The glass had just gotten a little more brittle.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"There is no change, then, _ashayam_?"

"Nope. Not a word." Trip slumped into the chair rather than sat in it. He'd caught a late dinner before he left Headquarters, but it had been left half-eaten because he was too bone-tired to finish it. Too many meals of late had suffered the same fate. Maybe when all of this was over he'd once more have the luxury of time to eat and actually notice what he was shoveling into his mouth.

His wife stood up and moved behind him. He felt her hands move unerringly to the neural nodes in the back of his neck and shoulders, and he groaned as she applied pressure. The tension in the muscles there was almost unbearable.

"You met the captain." She wasn't asking. She could probably feel through the bond the remnants of the frustration and anger of the exchange; by now he'd gotten pretty used to being unable to keep secrets from her. Not that he wanted to anyway, but sometimes he felt as if he ought to spare her as much worry as he could. He grunted by way of answer; partly because he was too pent up to talk about it much and partly because she'd just hit a really sensitive nerve cluster.

"And – the child?"

Even after all this time, it hurt. Pain lanced across the bond. _Elizabeth._ He put up a hand and grasped her by the wrist.

"The docs say it's doin' fine." He managed to keep his voice inexpressive, even if his emotions were beyond him.

Her fingers left his flesh gently. She moved around to the other side of the table and sat down opposite him. He found himself thinking all over again how beautiful she was and how lucky he was, but he was distracted when she spoke in a more than usually serious voice.

"What will happen to the child if its mother does not recover?"

He winced. He hadn't really wanted to contemplate that possibility. "I guess it'll have to be fostered for a while. Adopted, eventually."

T'Pol stared for a moment into her glass of water. "Are you aware of any directives either of its parents may have left for its welfare?"

He winced again, unsure of where this train of thought was going. Somewhere logical, no doubt, but he couldn't follow it yet. "Well, when he was in service Malcolm would've had to have made a will. I think the cap'n was one of the executors, come to think of it. He might've changed it after he left, though."

She'd brought her mental shields up after that brief lapse; he couldn't sense what she was feeling. Gently he leaned across the table and took hold of her hands. "Spit it out, T'Pol. I know when you're up to somethin'."

His wife drew a deep breath. "I would like us to adopt the child, if possible."

The words fell into a vast silence.

"I'd love to," Trip said after a long pause while he got too many thoughts into some kind of order. "But I – we haven't –"

Pain pulsed suddenly through the bond, new and raw. "I am not sure that we will ever be successful. Dr Phlox informed me that the procedure he had been working on up till yesterday has proved flawed. He will not give up trying, but …."

Another long pause, while he leaned forward and took her hands in his because he hadn't a clue what to say. Even though he shared her grief and despair, a tiny, treacherous part of him couldn't help but feel relief at the prospect of never having to endure again the procedures that he'd found intrusive and embarrassing, never having to have his hopes raised only for them to be dashed again in despair. Phlox's cheerful matter-of-factness had gone some way towards making the IVF treatment bearable, but nothing could come close to making it pleasant. Nothing at all could protect either of them from the agony when each embryo was found to be flawed. Only the memory of the love that baby Elizabeth had engendered during her short life had enabled him to endure repeated attempts to create a viable fetus, and each failure had torn the wound open and salted it afresh.

But – adopting a baby instead of having one of their own; it took some imagining. It would probably take some achieving, too, if it was possible at all. "I guess we'll have to wait and see how the birth goes." A smile that was rusty from long disuse ventured on to his face as he imagined a solemn little dark-haired, grey-eyed child toddling round their house brandishing a plastic toy phase pistol. "I'll have to practice my English accent. And use some of the words its daddy used to."

"I trust you will not teach an impressionable infant any of the words Lieutenant Reed used to employ when the weapons diagnostics results were unsatisfactory," said his wife drily.

* * *

For all his exhaustion, Trip lay awake for a long time that night.

The years on board ship had made him accustomed to the incessant background sounds and vibration of a warp engine. The downside to this was that when he was planet-side, even back on Earth, it took him a while to acclimatize to the silence and stillness.

They'd taken a house in the outskirts of the city. For one thing, it gave them greater privacy, for another it was quiet. It had a beautiful garden, full of the sound of trickling from its water features. As a desert-dweller T'Pol was particularly attracted to this. She found it relaxing. Now as he lay wakeful, his wife tucked into the curve of his arm, the sound of it came in through the open window and brought back memories that were painfully vivid.

Hoshi had liked the garden too. She and Malcolm had paid one visit while they were house-hunting. She particularly liked the arbor partially shielded by a bamboo screen where they'd all sat out late one evening drinking when the ship visited Jupiter Station briefly for a refit and upgrades. Even the war had seemed far away that night, for all that in reality it was looming larger and closer by the day.

They'd taken refuge in reminiscing, taking care to remember only the good times. For there had been good times; many of them, now that they came to look back. Malcolm hadn't talked much on his own account, but had listened bright-eyed, ready to inject his lethal wit wherever it would produce the most laughter. Hell, even T'Pol had smiled at some of his sallies. Hoshi had giggled like a girl, shocked even now it seemed by the surprisingly vulgar sense of humor that lurked under the prim and proper veneer her husband showed to the world. Or perhaps she just knew how much he liked it when she acted shocked.

"I can't say how much of a relief it is not to have the responsibility of looking after you lot any more," he'd said, late on in the night; his British accent was stronger than ever, a sure sign he was about to come out with something irreverent. "Especially the captain. I mean, his sense of security. Give an alien a pair of breasts and he never looked any further. _'Breasts – friend!'" _he cried, leering at Hoshi and extending clutching hands in the appropriate direction.

Trip had tried hard to look shocked, but he couldn't control the guffaws. It was too painfully accurate. Nevertheless he couldn't resist hitting back on Jon's behalf with a reminder that when the Orion 'babes' made their bid to take over the ship, Malcolm hadn't exactly figured in the forefront of the resistance.

"The only 'forefront' he was interested in was that woman's cleavage," scoffed Mrs. Sato-Reed. "I thought if he didn't come up for air soon I'd have to call Phlox to give him oxygen!"

"It was the _pheromones_," the ex-lieutenant had retorted, nettled by the implication that his hormones were as uncontrollable as the captain's.

"Well that's one word for what every guy on the ship was hypnotized by!" That particular comment earned Trip a Look from his wife, which prompted him to add, "'Cept me, o'course!" in the sort of aggravatingly smug and superior tone which comes naturally to a man who has a cast-iron alibi. On the basis that having been protected by his mate-bond he was immune to the Orions' pheromones, he could claim to be equally immune to their more obvious attractions. Fortunately T'Pol found this logical, even though she'd always insisted that Vulcans didn't do jealousy. Well, technically they didn't. Though Amanda Cole might have been able to provide some input on that particular issue.

"I was more interested in her personality, actually." This was less a bluff than a transparent lie, but Reed put his best effort into producing a note of injured innocence; it was rather unfortunate that his grin gave him away.

"Weird place to look for her personality – down the front of her bra," observed Hoshi.

"No, no, you've got him all wrong." Trip had wagged a finger at her. "I have it on the _best_ authority that Malcolm here's more of an ass man."

Reed had blanched. "Don't you – don't you bloody dare, Trip Tucker, or you are a _dead _man_._"

"Oh, quit worryin'. Your little secret's safe with me!"

"Secret? You've just bloody told everybody!"

"Not half as much as I _could_ have told them," he pointed out with a grin.

"And why do I get the feeling that the rest's just a matter of time?"

"Aw, I wouldn't do that to a friend. And besides, I don't want to end up head first in the fountain just 'cause you've got no sense of humor."

"You let that slip and you'll be head first in the waste disposal, never mind the fountain."

"I bet it was Captain Archer's ass, actually," Hoshi confided to T'Pol.

"You of all people should know what sort of ass I'm interested in."

By this time T'Pol was looking somewhat austere. Trip had taken pity on her and changed the subject, but the memory of it had lingered over the following weeks, and at odd moments he'd found himself grinning at some of the things they'd said.

Funny, he could still grin even now, though the tears pricked at his eyes at the thought of how easily they'd all laughed.

_I can't believe I'll never see him again._

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"Well, well, fancy bumping into you, Pinkskin!"

Oh, hell. Captain Archer closed his eyes. Of all the people he had to encounter at the end of one of the longest days of his life. Why couldn't he have left the meeting five minutes earlier, or stayed ten minutes later? His head was pounding. The last thing he needed to have to cope with now was the Andorian's bluff and overwhelming personality. Not to mention the bottles of Andorian ale that could be virtually guaranteed to be introduced into the proceedings given the slightest excuse – and the victory over the Romulans was one hell of an excuse, however pyrrhic it might have been.

"Shran. What are you doing here?"

"Don't sound so pleased, Captain, you might strain yourself." The ex-commander of the _Kumari_ came up close and peered at him. "You look terrible."

"Cheer me up, why don't you." Jon stared desperately around the crowded plaza, trying to spot someone with whom he could plausibly invent urgent business and who'd be bright enough to back him up. He couldn't cope with Shran. Not while the glass was still there all around him, cutting everything off. Andorians and glass. Shran and alcohol and glass. No. No.

"As soon as I saw you that was just what I thought you needed. You, me and a few bottles of the best stuff in the house."

"Some other time. It's been a long day."

Shran, however, was as impervious as rhino hide. "So turn it into a short evening. Have a drink."

_Humor him. It's the only way to get rid of him. Hell, maybe the underside of a table's the view I need right now. _"Okay. But make it a short one."

They walked to Archer's quarters, exchanging small talk. The Andorian Imperial Guard hadn't entirely forgiven Shran for his loss of the _Kumari_, but the war had meant that anyone with experience was suddenly required to stand forward for their sins to be forgotten – at least temporarily. He'd been given command of the _Hath, _a rather more modest ship that was, quite frankly, a come-down, but he wasn't the type to refuse a chance to get involved in the biggest fight of his life. Unbelievably, it seemed he'd actually enjoyed it; from almost anyone else the assertion would have come across as bravado, but that wasn't the Andorian's style at all. And in typical style, he'd come through it with a ship that was practically undamaged and not a single fatality. The Devil, Archer thought moodily, was evidently still looking after his own.

"So why are you here? I'd have thought you'd be on the way back to Andoria by now." Jon moved to a cupboard to get out a couple of whisky tumblers.

"Helping out you pinkskins as usual. Actually, helping to transport casualties. Ours as well as yours – Earth being closer than Andoria." He unslung the pack from his shoulders and produced the inevitable tall decanters of pale blue fluid. "Starfleet was gracious enough to offer to treat the injured who couldn't wait till we could get them home."

"At least they owed you that much." Archer watched the tumbler being filled with a generous measure of the fiery spirit; the first, no doubt, of many he was doomed to drink that night.

"Don't fool yourselves. We knew if they took you and the Vulcans down, we'd be next. And the Tellarites wouldn't have stood a chance." Shran tossed back his first glassful and managed not to wince, though his eyes watered slightly. "The Andorian Government doesn't do altruism."

"Another case of helping us and helping yourselves, huh?" The reply was a little barbed, and his guest didn't miss it.

"I'm a soldier and I follow orders, Captain – just like you do. I don't have to like them." He poured another measure and glowered. "I believe you received a strictly _unauthorized_ transmission shortly afterwards."

"Yes. Thank you." A thread of shame filtered through the exhaustion. _Who am I to give lectures about 'helping yourself'? _Jon tossed back his own glassful and didn't succeed in not wincing, though managing to swallow the whole amount in one go was an achievement in itself. He'd normally only sip at it. On an empty stomach he was going to pay for this, but suddenly that was just another item in the list of things he couldn't seem able to care about.

"I heard about your tactical officer." Shran's voice had gone gravelly suddenly. "I didn't know him well, but I know Talas thought highly of him. And Jhamel sends her regrets."

"I'll pass them on to his wife." Though what difference that was likely to make when nothing else had got through. The thought of Hoshi lying there small and hopeless and unresponsive in that hospital bed, suddenly caught him by the throat worse than the ale had. He pushed the tumbler across for a refill and downed that too. The liquid heated his throat like magma, but nothing could warm the bubble. The glass that it was made of was holding back a reality that was colder than the outer reaches of the universe. It couldn't break. It mustn't break.

"His _wife?_"

"Our comm officer. Hoshi Sato. They married a couple of years before the war started."

"I thought Starfleet didn't approve of onboard romances."

"What Starfleet 'approves of' and what actually happens when men and women are stuck on a ship for years at a time can be two different things." He thought of Trip and T'Pol. God knew that was a fire and ice combination, but somehow they made it work. The ship's rumor mill probably had them down as having a relationship, but their marriage was a closely guarded secret; the Powers That Be had insisted on that. Now Trip had suddenly gotten it into his head that that wasn't enough. It could only be a matter of time before he made his move, and who knew what it would be. The only thing that could be guaranteed was that despite the current chaos, some small-minded busybodies with a little authority would make it their business to raise hell about it.

Malcolm and Hoshi. Trip and T'Pol. They'd found their 'special others', even if for one of them it carried a cost that hardly bore thinking of. That kind of happiness had always eluded him. He had the relationship with Erika, sure, but that was more along the lines of a friendship with benefits. When they were apart he rarely thought about her, certainly didn't miss her, and had never felt obliged to be faithful to her any more than he'd have expected her to be faithful to him. No 'Semper Fidelis' there.

He looked up and found Shran studying him. "She's having a baby," he blurted out. "In a couple of weeks." The tumbler came back to him refilled and he emptied it. All of it. Fast.

"At least she'll have something to remember him by." For all his bellicosity, the Andorian had occasionally given glimpses of a softer side. It was showing now. His gaze held an unexpected sympathy for a woman he'd probably hardly noticed in passing.

"We don't know." Archer watched the tumbler being filled yet again. "She couldn't handle it. I told her – she was on board the ship. I had to tell her." His speech was becoming something he had to handle with more care than usual; the syllables were already showing signs of wanting to arrange themselves in no particular order.

"He brought her on board the ship when you were going into battle?" Shran's eyebrows climbed, while his antennae stood upright like exclamation marks. "And you allowed it?"

"If he was okay with it, why not?" That was a prod in a spot that was already sore, and he snapped the reply as a result. "I tried to argue them out of it. She said she wan'... wanted to be with him. If we lost it wouldn't matter anyways. You know that."

The other man shrugged, and drank his own ale. "You're the captain." His tone implied that it wouldn't have happened on the _Hath_, but pinkskins probably didn't have the guts to control their wives. "So what happened to her?"

"Cat-a-to-nic seizure." Jon had to be very careful indeed with a word that seemed to have become five times as complicated as it had when Phlox had first used it. "She just – went away." Blue liquid washed down his throat again, though he couldn't remember giving the order to his hand. To his horror he realized that the heat of the magma and the cold of outer space were now actually touching either side of the bubble. The glass was brittle and so was he. Liquid was spilling down his face but it wasn't blue; it was clear and salt. "Forty-three of my crew. I couldn't keep them safe. I lost twenty-seven in the Expanse. It was only forty-two this time till…." He was rocking to and fro in the chair but he couldn't stop. "The bastard. He just had to make it a nice round seventy."

_Seventy deaths under his command. Seventy letters of condolence. Seventy personnel files marked 'KIA'. Well, that's what his dad had invented the Warp 5 engine for. So his little boy could take seventy people out into space and get them killed._

Shran was watching him. At least the Andorian had the sensitivity not to bring up the subject of the crews of the ships that hadn't made it at all in a futile effort at consolation. One of the issues of today's meeting had been the initial assessments of casualties. Numbers. He'd had to think of them as numbers. Except that one number was now, suddenly, utterly beyond bearing.

_Seventy!_

The bubble shattered.

He shattered with it.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

The call came through in the early hours of the morning, dragging Trip reluctantly out of the sleep that had eventually claimed him. T'Pol had woken first and was at the computer by the time he'd gotten his brain into gear. Evidently she'd bought into the idea that they weren't going to keep their cover intact anymore; up till now, they'd taken care that only he responded to incoming calls.

"Urgent personal transmission for Commander Tucker." The anonymous individual on the other end didn't care who Commander Tucker might be. They just wanted to hand on the call to anyone who'd accept it.

"Route it through." Adrenaline surged. He sat up fast and lunged forward to the computer, clutching the sheet to his stomach to preserve his modesty. The Starfleet logo blinked off to reveal the unexpected, frowning blue visage of a man Trip hadn't even known was in the Sol system. "Shran?" he said incredulously.

"Commander Tucker. Can you meet me at Captain Archer's quarters here at Headquarters as soon as possible?" It was phrased as a request, but it came across more as an order. Though that was probably just Shran being Shran. He accorded Jon something roughly approximating to respect, but he didn't spread it around unnecessarily.

"Is there any particular reason why I should?"

"An excellent reason, but I'd rather discuss it in person when you get here."

The transmission ended abruptly. It had been terminated at the other end. Surprise.

Trip straightened up. "Now what the hell was all that about?" he asked slowly.

"The sooner we get there, the sooner we'll find out." T'Pol was already slipping off her dressing gown, reaching for her clothes. "I suggest we comply with Commander Shran's request. He never struck me as a person who made facetious demands."

"I guess not." He dropped the sheet. It wasn't like she was going to see anything she hadn't seen before.

* * *

"You took your time."

"We came as fast as we could." Trip frowned, taking in the fact that Shran had answered Jon's door. What was he doing here at this hour of the morning? It was hardly dawn yet. A sea mist had drifted in overnight, and everything was covered in a thin film of moisture that would burn off as soon as the sun rose. The bridge across the bay was nothing but an indistinct shape disappearing into the murk.

"Come on in." The Andorian stepped backwards quickly and allowed them into the apartment. It was noticeable that he looked out of the door afterwards to ensure that nobody had observed them arrive, but the plaza was silent and deserted. Security cameras were probably active, but there was nothing that would have looked particularly out of place. The two Starfleet officers were, after all, part of the _Enterprise _crew. It would cause no comment that they should visit their captain, even at this early hour. On the other hand, _his_ presence here was going to take some explaining. The HQ rumor mill would have a field day with it if this got out.

"I'll keep this short and sweet," growled Shran. He led the way to the bedroom door.

Trip made a strangled sound in his throat. He didn't know what they were going to see, but he knew he didn't want to see it.

Jon was curled up on the bed, stripped to the waist and bathed in sweat. And he was crying. Not loudly, but steadily, hopelessly, as though he'd forgotten how to stop. He didn't look up or give any sign that he knew they were there. He just lay there weeping. His face was swollen up, his eyelids reddened and inflamed. The sheet under his cheek was saturated, and somebody had laid a towel on it, but that was rapidly becoming sodden too. Ugly suspicions flared into Trip's mind and worse, into his face. Evidently aware just what this looked like, Shran glared at him, his antennae at their most aggressive.

"Before you say what I'd have to slit your guts for, pinkskin, I didn't and I wouldn't!"

"Then what the hell's all that about?" yelled Tucker, gesturing at the man on the bed. "Someone's sure done somethin' to him, because he wasn't doin' that yesterday when I saw him!"

"Have you called a doctor?" T'Pol knelt beside the bed and patted the captain's face gently, calling his name. There wasn't a break in the rhythm of his dragging, difficult breathing to suggest he'd heard her. He didn't give the slightest indication that he even knew she was there.

"Of course I haven't," snarled Shran. "This is Starfleet Headquarters, not the Imperial Guard's. If I picked the wrong person to call, all damned hell would break loose!"

"I believe that Dr Phlox is expected to arrive this morning. We should contact the ship and request that he join us here as soon as possible." She laid a hand assessingly on Archer's forehead. "The captain seems to have a slight temperature, but I would not think it dangerous as yet."

"Good idea." Trip stepped to the computer and instituted a call to _Enterprise._ For a moment he was actually surprised when a voice answered him that wasn't Hoshi's; her return to the comm station had felt so natural that he forgot sometimes that she wasn't even Starfleet any more, let alone a member of the crew. Then the realization hit him all over again, and the nausea in the pit of his stomach turned it over.

"Tucker here. Has that last transport left for Earth yet?" Thank God, the ship couldn't limp away to spacedock for the major repairs until the last of the wounded had been dispatched to hospital on Earth. As soon as the final consignment was unloaded she was scheduled to leave orbit; he'd been doing what he could, but the damage was just way too huge for his team to undertake. Parts of her literally needed to be rebuilt. As he'd left in the shuttle he'd looked back at what was left of the ship that had been so beautiful to him when she was launched and almost cried with shock at what he saw; it had been even worse than what the Xindi attack had done. It had been bad enough seeing it from the inside via the sensors and what cameras survived. Getting the whole picture had been absolutely traumatic.

"No, sir. I think they're just completing the transfer now."

"Good. Patch me through to Phlox."

"Yes, sir."

"Phlox here. What can I do for you, Commander?" For all the days and hours of almost non-stop labor the Denobulan had put in caring for the wounded, he still sounded incurably cheerful.

Trip hesitated. He was perfectly well aware that communications were monitored and recorded as a matter of course. "Doc, as soon as you're free down here we need you to come to Cap'n Archer's quarters. It's, uh… kind of urgent."

"There are perfectly competent doctors at Headquarters if you or the captain require medical attention." Phlox sounded slightly surprised. "I can contact my good friend..."

"No, it's not that urgent." The chief engineer interrupted hastily. "But we … we kinda need your advice. Somethin' confidential."

"Well, if you're sure it can wait. I expect to be free in about an hour or so. Naturally I'll need to discuss these last few patients of mine with the hospital who'll be taking over their care, but I've transmitted most of the relevant information already so that shouldn't take too long." He broke off briefly to call instructions to someone who was apparently carrying a stretcher through the docking port. "I'll be with you as quickly as I can after that, Commander."

"You're sure you can trust him?" asked Shran as the connection closed.

"Absolutely." Trip watched his wife sit down beside the captain and put a hand on his shoulder. It didn't have the slightest effect. "Mind tellin' us exactly what happened?"

"_Nothing_ happened!" He sat down heavily at the table. "We met up last night. I think he'd been at meetings all day, he looked worn out. He said it'd been rough. I asked him to have a drink with me and he agreed."

"Some drink." The half-empty decanter was still on the table, along with the empty glasses. A wholly empty one lay on its side.

"I drank most of the second one," growled Shran. "Believe me, I needed it."

"So he had a drink," prompted Trip.

"That's exactly what happened. A couple of glasses. I was surprised how fast he was putting it down," admitted the Andorian. "We were talking. Just catching up on what had happened. He told me about Lieutenant Reed's wife and the baby. And the casualties. And then.…" He gestured helplessly. "Then _that_ happened."

"Oh, holy crap." Tucker put his head in his hands. "This could be the end of his career."

"At first I thought he was just drunk," Shran continued. "I've seen this kind of thing happen even on Andoria. But he just hasn't stopped. He hasn't slept. I put him down there thinking he'd pass out eventually, but it didn't happen. And I didn't know what to do for him, so I called you." He glanced at T'Pol as if only now realizing he'd got two for the price of one. "I know you're his friends, and you'll have access to resources I don't."

"We must make every effort to keep this between ourselves for as long as possible." The Vulcan competently and gently exchanged the now saturated towel for a dry one. "Unfortunately, dependent on Dr Phlox's diagnosis, that may not be long enough for the captain to make a full recovery."

"Well we sure know we can depend on Phlox. But till he gets here, all we can do is wait." Trip raised his face and stared through the door at the curled-up form of his captain, still shuddering with the sobs that went on and on and on.

The curse of the war had claimed another victim.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"Oh, my."

Even faced with this wreck of his captain, Phlox didn't indulge in any dramatics. His tone held only pity. He knelt beside the bed and peered closely at the still silently crying Archer before fishing a medical scanner out of his pocket and studying what the readout told him. He shook his head over it. "There's only one thing I can do for him right now." Another pocket of his capacious coat held a case with various hyposprays in it, and he inspected these before selecting one and pressing it to the captain's neck.

"Nothing more than a sedative, I'm afraid," he said, getting to his feet. "He's going to have to sleep for a good while to allow his hormone levels to stabilize. He's simply borne too much for too long."

The only way that they could tell that Jon had slipped into unconsciousness was the lengthening of his breathing. His eyes had been closed throughout, virtually swollen shut, and tears still squeezed themselves slowly out between the lids from time to time. Nevertheless, his body slowly relaxed from the terrifying rigidity that had gripped it.

Between them, Trip and the doctor made him more comfortable, stripping off his pants and covering him with a sheet to keep him from chilling too quickly as his sweat dried.

"So can you treat him, doc?" asked Tucker.

"I can help him, certainly. But for cases like this the recovery takes time. Years, perhaps. Much of it will be up to the captain himself."

"It's not goddamn fair!" Trip burst out passionately. "After all he's done, they'll put him out to pasture like an old horse over this!"

"That may be what he requires in order to make a full recovery," said Phlox, gravely gentle.

"No, it's not! He just needs a little time, a little rest. Retire him now and you might as well just shoot him out'a hand. I know him!"

"Frankly, Commander, I don't see any other option. The circumstances hardly allow him to take extended leave, and medication won't cure a collapse of this magnitude. Even if he would be willing to make the attempt, I couldn't permit him to resume his duties in this state. He'd be a danger to himself and to Starfleet."

"There is one alternative." T'Pol spoke slowly, but didn't elaborate on what it might be.

The three men looked curiously at her.

"Do you recall, Doctor, the occasion when I suffered an almost fatal _ihaile_ bite?"

Phlox blinked. "Well, yes, of course, but that was a physical ailment."

The Vulcan glanced at Shran, as though measuring how much he should be told of an episode that was in many respects confidential among _Enterprise_'s officers. "One of the natives on that planet possessed what can only be described as extraordinary telepathic powers. She was able to establish a remarkable mental bond with the captain that appeared to have a profound effect on him. It might be that she would be willing to do so again, and could do something to repair or alleviate the damage that this episode has caused him."

Trip's face lit up, and then darkened with renewed grief as he remembered who else had benefited from the Skair's amazing ability to heal. His expression set into one of dogged determination. "Then we've got to at least ask her." A moment later further inspiration struck him. "And maybe she could help Hoshi too!"

"There is one overwhelming obstacle in the way of that plan," his wife pointed out drily. "Thanks to recent events, we lack transport."

"Is there anything about this planet which might make it worth my while to make a detour?" asked Shran, a little too carelessly.

"Probably. But considerin' what your government might decide to do about it if they found out, I don't think the folks who live there would thank us for tellin' anybody about it."

"Oho!" The Andorian's eyebrows climbed. His antennae, faithful indicators of every mood, twitched forward with interest. "That valuable, eh?"

"Yes. That valuable. And they haven't discovered warp drive; in fact they haven't discovered anything much except how to live pretty peaceful lives as regards to outsiders gettin' involved. That's why we've kept real quiet about it, and why we don't plan on broadcastin' information about it that could lead to the Klingon Empire annexin' it!"

"Not that far out of my way home, then," Shran murmured slyly. "The offer's still on the table. Having our protection would save them worrying about Klingon intervention."

"They don't worry about it 'cause they don't know about it, and I don't plan on them findin' out about it thanks to us!" snapped Trip.

"Perhaps Starfleet would authorize the loan of a small ship if you could convince them of the possible benefit to the captain," suggested Phlox.

"If they get wind of what Shiránnor can do, they'll want to do more than provide transport for the cap'n. Next thing you know there'll be a medical facility on Kerriel and she'll be some kinda lab rat in it."

"I somehow doubt that she would agree to becoming a laboratory animal," T'Pol pointed out a little grimly. "Or that the Emperor would consent to a medical facility being established on the planet for any reason."

"Maybe Andoria might have better powers of persuasion than Starfleet."

"Maybe Andoria might be bitin' off more than it could chew if it tried."

"You're intriguing me more and more." Shran grinned. "This mysterious alien's definitely got _you_ running scared."

"They helped us a lot, and they didn't ask for a damned thing in payment for it. So we're not goin' to repay their kindness by turnin' their planet into a minin' facility or a medical facility or any other damned sort of facility!" He glared at the Andorian. "But on the other hand, I always reckoned the cap'n thought of you as a friend of sorts and maybe you felt the same way about him. And friends are supposed to help each other out, aren't they?"

"You want me to take my ship light-years off course on a crazy idea as a gesture of friendship for a pinkskin?" The words were scathing, but the tone was rather more ambiguous. "Even if I was willing, exactly how would I explain that little pleasure jaunt to my government afterwards? And what's to stop me telling them what I know, in return for the restoration of my captaincy? I'm sure the rewards would sweeten my name if they're as great as you say."

"I believe you set considerable store by your honor," said T'Pol quietly. "If you give your word, you will keep it."

"Ah, but my word won't get me another ship."

"If you assist the captain in an important diplomatic mission, Starfleet will be very grateful to you. There would be a strong possibility that they would be willing to exert influence on the Andorian government on your behalf."

Shran grimaced, but he looked reluctantly interested. "Keep talking."

"Captain Archer is a valuable asset," continued the Vulcan imperturbably. "After his role as the captain of the ship which averted the threat of the Xindi weapon, plus took a part in the historic battle at Cheron, he is a role model with influence and experience that Starfleet will be reluctant to lose. If there is a way to restore him to health, it is important that we take the opportunity. I am certain that it would be possible to contrive a reason for your ship to pay a visit to a small and unimportant planet as a favor to Andoria's allies in the recent conflict."

"Without consulting my government first," he said without expression.

"The administration is in some disarray. We could undoubtedly arrange for a message to … go astray, to be found at a later time, exonerating you from any blame."

"We'd need some reason for Jon not to turn up to the meetin's tomorrow," said Trip dubiously.

"We have received a message requesting him to leave Earth immediately to investigate a rumor of a second attack. The source of the rumor, whom we have reason to believe may be trustworthy, has insisted on speaking to him individually and alone, and Commander Shran has offered to transport him to the arranged rendezvous. We came here to inform him of this and he thought it best that we leave at once."

"And what about Hoshi?"

"That will not be a problem." Phlox beamed cherubically. "I will simply suggest that returning her to _Enterprise _may provide her with mental stimulation that her current environment does not. It has memories associated with a period prior to her attachment to Lieutenant Reed. As her physician, my opinion on her mental health is paramount."

"But what if they find she's not on _Enterprise_ at all?"

"_Enterprise _is, I believe, about to leave orbit for the repair docks. She will be off limits to visitors, and I am sure that Commander Tucker will be able to arrange for calls to her to be routed through to me in Starfleet via her comm system whilst she is in dock. I am the ship's physician. If I say I have left Hoshi on board in the care of competent staff and that her being there is, in my opinion, having a beneficial effect on her, then I doubt that anyone will object."

"Then we'd better get the cap'n out of here pretty damned quick on this 'diplomatic mission' before anyone sees us carryin' him."

"I haven't agreed to a damned thing yet!" said Shran indignantly.

"No, but you will, won't you?" Trip glared at him.

"If I do this, Pinkskin, you and Archer owe me a ship!"

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

The tap on the door made them all jump slightly, even though they were expecting it. They'd been busy in the meantime. Archer was now wearing as much of Shran's uniform as he could be squeezed into, given the disparity between their sizes. Shran, conversely, was now wearing an outfit that had been snatched out of the captain's duffle. It fitted him almost as badly, but with the jacket lapels turned up and the captain's NX-01 cap jammed on to his head to cover his antennae he would appear slightly less distinctive.

Trip had hacked into the HQ electronic security systems. He couldn't disable them completely since that would set off alarms all over the place, but he was perfectly able to temporarily scramble transmissions from the cameras between the plaza and the port where Shran's shuttle was waiting to take him back to his ship.

Phlox was outside the door with a double gurney. Hoshi was on one part of it, warmly wrapped up. More blankets lay ready for the second casualty.

"I've cleared everything with the departures people," the Denobulan said cheerfully. "Just two of the less badly wounded ready to return to their ship. There are so many comings and goings over there they were even less interested than I expected. It's astonishing how few busy people appreciate a little light conversation." Having gone through that hive of activity the day before, with shuttles arriving and leaving every minute, it was probable that the doctor knew exactly how best to bluff his way past a more searching inquisition. The slightest suspicion that a passenger was inclined to embark on unnecessary and time-consuming chit-chat would have filled the overworked spaceport staff with such panic that they'd have shunted him into the fast lane as quickly as humanly possible just to get rid of him.

"I don't know how I let you talk me into this," growled Shran, wincing. To judge by the odd movements of the cap fabric, his sensitive antennae were brushing by accident against the inside of it, and it wasn't a pleasant sensation to him. "And if by any chance we do make it to the _Hath_ without getting arrested for drugging and abducting a Starfleet captain, remember his name's Jon and he's your brother. Jon Tucker. My crew probably wouldn't recognize his face, but they'll know his name if we use it. And the Imperial Guard didn't extend their forgiveness to letting me pick my own crew."

"You can't trust them?" asked Trip in dismay.

"Of course I trust them – insofar as I know them. But I don't know some of them all that well. Obviously I'd kill anyone who betrayed us, but that wouldn't save this precious planet of yours once the secret was out. If they found out who he is they'd probably talk, and once his name's connected with this place then people are going to start asking the sort of questions you don't want them trying to find answers for, especially in these circumstances. By all rights he's got no business leaving Earth at all."

"Jon it is, then." Tucker cocked an eye at the doctor. "You comin' with us for the ride, Doc?"

"I wish I could. But I'm afraid with things as they are every doctor in the area will have their hands full for some time, and there really aren't enough of us as it is with experience treating the sort of injuries commonly sustained in the battles these casualties have fought. I'm sure you'll be able to cope. I've been in touch with the medic on board _Hath_ and given him sufficient information to start. If you need more you know where to find me. Besides, I need to speak to Hoshi's parents when they arrive. If they're expecting to see her and find she's not here any longer, they'll need to be given a convincing explanation, preferably from the doctor concerned."

"I sure hope all this is gonna be worth it."

"We have two options. Continue with this plan or abandon it," T'Pol pointed out. "There are logical reasons for continuing, but naturally that course is the riskier of the two."

"Ah, what the hell. We've come this far; it'd be a pity to back out now." He bent and lifted Archer's long inert body from the bed, gasping a little; he knew, of course, that his wife could probably lift it with less effort than he could, but somehow he just couldn't make himself let her. "Make sure there's nobody about, will ya?"

Sufficient time had elapsed for there to be a fair number of early risers hurrying to and fro outside, but most of them were far too busy with their own concerns to pay attention to the small party accompanying yet another couple of casualties through the complex. There were so many wounded after the battle that nobody blinked an eye over a gurney being rushed in any direction. Just in case of any passer-by becoming inconveniently curious, Phlox had hurriedly wrapped a bandage around the upper part of the captain's head and face, effectively disguising him completely.

They reached the shuttle port without incident. Luckily, the volume of traffic had forced the Andorian craft to set down in a rather out-of-the-way corner, and nobody paid any attention at all to the three of them making their way to it. The gurney could be split down into two stretchers to carry the two 'casualties' on board separately and rest them on the deck, which had been cleared of any superfluous equipment or fixtures to allow it to carry the maximum number of wounded personnel on the trip down.

"We're goin' on a little ride with Shran, Hosh'," Trip told her, trying to convince himself that her blank stare in his direction was evidence of curiosity or protest. "You just look after your little 'un in there for a while longer." Then a rather alarming thought occurred to him and he turned his head. "Doc, what if this baby comes while we're away?"

"It's a baby, not a catastrophe," answered Phlox a little testily. "I'm sure Shran's medic will be able to render any assistance necessary. In any event, the delivery is not due for six or seven weeks yet, and you should reach Kerriel easily by then. If our hopes are answered, Hoshi will be in a condition to care for the infant herself on the way home. If not, even in the state she's in she should be able to provide milk, and I'm sure the rest of you could contrive to take care of the other requirements."

"Just what I need – being cooped up with a squalling pinkskin baby for weeks on end," muttered Shran.

"All part of the bargain." Trip grinned unsympathetically at him, then turned to look at T'Pol. _'Aduna, are you sure you're gonna be okay with this?' _he sent.

_'We will support each other. It will be difficult, but we will manage,'_ she replied. He could feel apprehension but resolution too. _'You feel that this is something Lieutenant Reed would want you to do.'_

_'Can't argue with that. I know how he felt about her, because I feel the same 'bout you. He'd want _her_ to look after their baby, not anyone else.'_

_'I think he would make an exception for us, if it was necessary.'_

_'I guess he probably would. But I think I owe him and Hoshi enough to give it a try.'_

* * *

To Shran's professed surprise, _Hath_ left orbit without being challenged. That said, there was still a great deal of traffic coming and going, and a ship so unremarkable was unlikely to attract any particular notice. It had visited Earth on legitimate business and was, as far as anyone knew, returning to Andoria. There really was no reason for it to be a source of any curiosity at all.

Not yet, at least.

A message had been left with Starfleet, purportedly from the captain, with the story that had been agreed on. _Enterprise_ had received a coded message that had been passed on to him, and he had decided that the danger was real enough to act on immediately. It had taken little effort to insert the message into the starship's comm system, a message just damaged enough to hide the fact that it had actually come from HQ. The comm system had been shot to hell anyway. It would be regarded as little short of a miracle that anyone managed to retrieve it at all.

They also had to partially disable _Hath'_s comm system, specifically with reference to calls from Starfleet. They couldn't have officialdom trying to make contact with the captain before his recovery. "Though I have no idea what we're gonna say if he doesn't," Trip said wryly, as they sat down to eat that evening. "If that's how this turns out, I don't think we'll be servin' on Starfleet vessels again."

"You'll be lucky not to be jailed," remarked Shran, seemingly not particularly disturbed by that prospect.

"Yeah, well I'll save ya a bunk in the same cell."

"Oh, I can disappear if I need to. I have useful business associates from my time in the Imperial Guard. You two, on the other hand, are so wedded to Starfleet that you've put your entire careers on the line."

"We are aware of that fact," said T'Pol quietly, pouring herself a glass of water.

The Andorian glanced towards the cabin where Captain Archer was still sound asleep. "You're going to keep him sedated all the way?"

"No. Just a day or so, to let him rest. Then we'll see how he is."

"I wouldn't expect too much," warned the other man. The ship's steward was moving around the table, distributing various dishes. "He's been living on his nerves too long. When a man like your brother breaks, he breaks big time."

"I'll put him under again if I have to. The main thing is, he won't have people on his back any more. He won't have any responsibilities. He can eat and sleep and do whatever he wants to, at least till we get to Kerriel."

"Yes. And then it gets interesting." Shran's eyes glinted. "Who would have thought a planet in that little backwater could be so enthralling?"

"Who'd a thought it," said Trip drily, taking the plate his host politely passed to him. "You might notice I've done a little adjustin' to your sensors, by the way. There are some that won't work quite as well as they used to. Just in case your crew happened to get a mite curious as to why we're visitin', I've encrypted the access codes to them, too. And as soon as we leave I'll be wipin' the coordinates from the database."

"Great. I let you come on board my ship and you sabotage it."

"Nothin' I can't mend. Just takin' a few precautions."

"I can see why you never signed on for the diplomatic corps." The Andorian glared at him. "I believe it's usually considered polite to ask your host's permission before you go tinkering with things that just might happen to be _sensitive_."

"Weren't sensitive at all. Piece of cake," Tucker said through a mouthful of something that sort of tasted like pasta.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"No _honour guard?"_

Priestess Kyevar's voice was not the only one that rang around the Council Chamber with a note of incredulous dismay. Others so far forgot the dignity expected of Skaira (and senior Skaira at that) as to fairly howl their astonishment.

The First Priestess's amber eyes opened a little wider in mild surprise at the violence of their reaction to what had, after all, been a fairly minor adjustment to Tradition.

"It is not possible!" growled Priestess Jerhazy. "From the first, the Honour Guard has been there!"

"It is entirely possible." First Priestess Shiránnor's voice was mild, but it silenced the incipient quarrel as effectively as though she had shouted at the top of it. "I would be interested to know exactly what any of you can tell me they actually _do._"

Her juniors blinked at her.

"The First has _always _had an Honour Guard," said Priestess Fassery a little fearfully.

"I for one have every confidence that Shieih will preserve me from assassination in Her own temple," said Shiránnor calmly. "When we go abroad, of course, I will need them to fend off the ravening hordes intent on the destruction of one of the Daughters of the Goddess. It is hardly as though anyone might expect Her to _mind._"

"But why should you wish to change this?" Jerhazy's ears were flatter than was strictly polite when addressing her superior. Skaira were fully alive to the use of awful irony. "Such a thing has never been heard of before! Why now, after all the years?"

"If they achieve nothing, surely they are wasted? And has the Goddess created anything to be wasted? Because no one has thought of it before, am I not permitted to think of it now?" The First's tone was still very mild, but a couple of the more perceptive members of the council glanced at one another.

"Now I am going to the Chapel to pray," Shiránnor went on quietly. "And if you wish to discuss this among yourselves, that is your right. But I would strongly suggest that you consider that the oldest and greatest of the traditions is obedience. There are those among you who appear to have forgotten that."

She rose and padded out through the doors, not waiting for any of her juniors to run and push them open for her. Once in the corridor she turned right and went quickly towards her goal, the small quiet room that beckoned to her with a sense of calm reassurance. At this moment she felt not so much the need for answers as the need to connect herself even more fully than usual to the Silence.

Her honour guard had been waiting for her outside the council chamber and automatically fell into step at her tail. As she reached the chapel she stopped, turned around and looked at them. "You are dismissed," she said gently.

The two of them blinked at her. "First Priestess?"

"I have no need of you today," she told them. "And from now on, you are to attend me only on formal occasions."

Their bewilderment metamorphosed into outright horror. She found herself thinking in fond exasperation that anyone looking on would have supposed that a First Priestess going about her legitimate daily business around the holiest shrine on Kerriel went in hourly danger of assassination.

"Do you _enjoy_ standing around outside rooms waiting for me all day?" she asked.

This was evidently far too complex a question. The pair of them simply goggled at her. They were both Masters of the Warrior Arts, and had not been chosen for their powers of imagination.

"I would imagine it is very boring sometimes," she suggested, trying to help them along with the idea.

"It is an honour," one of them, Breíth, replied at last. The tip of her tail twitched in perplexity.

"It is what we do," the other, Naypenna, offered by way of explanation.

"But would you not rather be doing something else?" suggested Shiránnor patiently.

"What?" they asked immediately. Their whole demeanour reminded her instantly of a pair of eager _hlenexhi _waiting for a stick to be thrown in order to run and fetch it. She sighed.

Tradition, she told herself, was of enormous value. It ensured that everything ran as it ought, and she was appointed to ensure that it continued, even as her predecessors had done for as long as the dreamers could remember. But it tended to accrue a vast quantity of completely irrelevant material as it went along, and she had long thought that some of this could be trimmed back to manageable levels, if not actually slashed and burned. She had seen a forest fire rage through part of the Holy Woods on one occasion, kindled by a lightning strike during the onset of a storm. Although the damage had been terrible (fortunately the storm, when it finally came, had extinguished the flames before they could spread far and wide), the patch of forest that had been burned had regenerated itself and seemed actually to benefit from the event, catastrophic though it had seemed at the time. She had thoughts of bringing the same kind of renewal to Skairesse, though it would have to be slowly and carefully managed. This situation was typical. Surely the Good Goddess valued people more than empty functions!

Quite possibly the tradition of having an Honour Guard had its origins in a time when Skairesse had something to prove, though it was inconceivable that it could ever have had something to fear. Now it was nothing but an anachronism that tied up two individuals in a meaningless and time-consuming duty. And yet, they obviously regarded their post as a privileged one. She must be sure not to make them feel that they were being devalued as well as dismissed. "I have long thought that there should be a deeper meaning in the title of my Honour Guard," she said slowly. "I am young, and my steps may go astray. Surely it would be well for two to have the duty of praying always before the Good Goddess that I may be guided surely in this great work that has been given me. It would be of the greatest comfort to me to know that waking or sleeping my need is kept always before Her paws."

Four eyes went round with awe at this suggestion – also, possibly, she surmised, at the thought that she might actually consider it safe to walk around alone among the people over whom Shieih Herself had given her rule. Foreseeing that little objection she moved adroitly to counter it. "This is of course only while we are at the Shrine. On any occasions when we go abroad, or when strangers are near me, you will of course be summoned to resume your presence to safeguard me."

The gold bands on their upper arms had certainly not been earned for recognition of underhand tactics. The two of them fairly beamed. "You will want one of us always to keep vigil at the Shrine on your behalf?"

"No, not for the whole time. It will be enough that whatever you do, you remain mindful of my need. I am sure that there are always those who would be glad of help in their daily tasks, and as long as that help is not so demanding that it takes up your whole attention, that would seem to me a fitting use of your time."

They looked so thrilled by the prospect of having not only interesting things to do every day but an important and responsible job for their First Priestess as well, that for a moment she felt positively guilty at the way she'd taken advantage of their innocence.

"When would it be suitable for us to take up these new duties, First Priestess?" asked Breíth, clearly trying not to sound too eager in case it wasn't polite.

"I am to spend a little time in vigil," replied Shiránnor, gesturing towards the chapel door. "I shall be strengthened in my prayers knowing that you are with me in spirit." _As opposed to standing outside the door with your Goddess-given minds rotting away,_ her inner voice added drily. One would have thought she'd flung the biggest and juiciest bone to the hungriest pair of _hlenexh_i in the kennels. With looks of absolute joy they half-exposed their wrists to her in reverence and hurried off in search of errands to run. She waited until they were safely out of sight before she grinned.

Nevertheless, although she had no regrets over what she had done, nor any intention of moderating her determination to prune the dead wood back to the living, the confrontation had touched on a nerve that had been prickling for some days past – not exactly with warning, but with a sense of anticipation: a feeling that something was about to happen. Maybe the Goddess was breathing on her?

She pushed open the chapel doors and entered. It felt a little strange not leaving two faithful shadows outside, but it was a good strangeness, a sense of having brought usefulness and happiness out of inactivity and pointlessness. As always, the chapel enfolded her with welcoming wings. She sighed gratefully and let it embrace her. The movement that fully exposed her wrists was graceful. _I am here, dear Mother. Work Your will with me._

There was no answer; she did not expect one. She was fully aware that during her habitual one-sided conversations with Shieih here in the privacy of this room, and indeed often only in the privacy of her own head, any answers that came were of her own creation. Nevertheless, she often found that she came away from these discussions refreshed and reinvigorated with at least some of her doubts assuaged and her path clearer than it had been previously. That this result was ensured by the Goddess, even if not in any way directly instigated by Her, she did not doubt for a moment.

The altar was at the far side of the room, and she padded towards it, meaning to assume her usual pose before it and empty her mind of thought, resting in the presence of the One and finding refreshment there as she always did. She had a busy night before her (in the Temple environs Skaira revert to being nocturnal, and conduct most of their business during the hours of darkness), and would do better in it if she was fully prepared. Skairesse had not yet come to terms with her appointment, and minor skirmishes like the one from which she had just emerged were probably inevitable. There was no real malice in Jerhazy or her like; they had just lived within the framework of Tradition for so long that any pruning of dead wood felt like the herald of a wholesale demolition. Their opposition to her was, from their point of view, honest and honourable. She must not let her enthusiasm for change and improvement blind her to their concerns, though her tolerance need not encompass anything that ran counter to a Skair's plain and basic duty of obedience.

She was so caught up in these reflections that she did not at first notice how the early evening light was striking through the window behind her and catching the polished surfaces of the hanging silver lamp above the altar. Even as she came to a halt, a gust of cool air blew through the chapel, smelling of the high mountain passes through which it had come. The lamp swung a little on its chain, so that one of the small reflected shapes of sunlight swept across the mottled blue marble facing of the wall towards the painted figure of First Priestess Fahinth making the Twilight Salute.

This type of marble had long been used solely in chapels dedicated to the Goddess, chiefly because its structure contained not only white mottling that resembled the swirls of glowing stellar dust that could be observed in the galaxy that occupied a good portion of the night sky, but also thousands of reflective chips that glittered in lamplight like stars against the blue. As Shieih was foremost the Lady of the Stars, these qualities in the stone made it absolutely natural that it should be chosen as the floor, and sometimes the walls, of Her places of worship. So there might have been nothing more than coincidence at work in the combination of entirely natural factors that presented the startled First Priestess with a representation of a shining object moving fast across a night sky towards the first of all her predecessors, but a twitching sense of anticipation told her otherwise.

She looked up at the ceiling, trying to send her thoughts through it. To the power that was resident in her, the wood was nothing, was less substantial than a ghost. Far more substantial was the certainty that suddenly crystallised in her mind. _They are coming back._

For all her ability, there was nothing yet. She had learned from the off-worlders something of the vastness of the distances that separated the stars; it might well be that time would yet have to pass before they came within the compass of her thoughts. Yet she received the certainty of their advent with very mixed emotions. Certainly she would be glad to see them again, but the possibility of real damage ensuing from their interaction remained a reality to her that no amount of gladness could obliterate. For whatever reason they were coming back, the risk remained, and she must be doubly on her guard against it.

She transferred her gaze to the rune chiselled into the wall behind the altar and painted in silver, the only representation of the Goddess that was allowed (other than the Image in the Sacred Cave, of course, which would never under any circumstances be described or reproduced elsewhere). Skahir, symbolising fidelity; the rune after which Skaira themselves had been named. It was held to have enormous power. Shieih Herself had spoken it aloud at the Creation, and it now represented the bond between Creator and created at its most profound. Reverently Shiránnor whispered it three times: three, the number of power that in their world's religion represented perfection.

The third visit.

The last.

_They were coming back._

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

Unconsciousness segued into dreams, and dreams into wakefulness. But it was a wakefulness that seemed more like a dream than anything else, a nightmare from which he could not wake. Jonathan Archer rolled sideways on the bunk, trying to work out where he was, but the effort exhausted him. He went back to sleep.

Much later he woke up again. This time he had too much of a headache to sleep again, and his bladder was close to exploding. Somebody half-led, half-carried him to a bathroom, where his most pressing problem was solved. He managed convey a wish to get into what looked like a shower cubicle, though he couldn't remember what he wanted to do in there so he curled up in a corner, started to cry again and went to sleep, whether the headache wanted him to or not.

At some point somebody must have carried him out of it again, because when consciousness returned for the third time he was back in the bunk. The headache was gone and somebody was holding a spoon to his mouth. He accepted it passively. The taste was bland, like tapioca pudding, but it made him aware that he was slightly hungry; three more spoonfuls was the limit of his requirement, however, and he found from somewhere enough strength to turn his head from the fourth.

The rim of a glass tapped gently against his lips. Glass. He shrank from it in half remembered fear, but the dribble of liquid that had gotten into his mouth told him how thirsty he was. For a couple of moments the thirst was greater than the fear. He tried to get a hand up to take hold of the beaker, but he couldn't remember how to do it. He discovered that he was being supported against somebody's shoulder, presumably the same somebody who gently and carefully held the glass to his mouth while he drank – water, with some kind of fruit juice in it, heavily sweetened. Ordinarily anything that tasted this sweet would have made him gag, but he was too thirsty to refuse it. An approving voice sounded in his ear, vaguely familiar, though deepened by the vibration of being heard through the chest wall as well. Assorted equally vague emotions traveled through him, though he couldn't place any of them. The voice was associated with a lot of them, somehow.

Fear knifed through him again, and grief twisted in the wound like a blade. He turned against the chest, smelling sandalwood and engine oil. The voice murmured reassuringly, and he cuddled up to the warmth, feeling tears start to run again.

Wakefulness segued into dreams and thence into unconsciousness.

It was the only state in which living was bearable.

* * *

"How much longer till we get there?" asked Trip, emerging from the latest round of trying to coax his captain to eat enough to keep a goose alive. The Andorian medic was hooking him up intermittently to some kind of feeding system that was keeping his body from collapse, supplying all the vital nutrients and a lot of the fluid. Nevertheless, it was important that his digestive system continue functioning, and for some reason the nourishment hadn't kept Jon from losing some of his body mass. Perhaps what Andorians needed was different from what humans did. At any rate, the readouts weren't exactly reassuring; the sooner they could get to Kerriel the better.

"Another couple of days," Shran shrugged. "He's not improving?"

"Not so's I can notice." Tucker sighed. "What's your guy say about Hoshi?"

"Nothing you'd care to hear. He hasn't had much experience with even Andorian deliveries. Having to cope with a pinkskin in labor wasn't what he signed up for."

"He can damn well look it up on the database. Phlox would have given him all the details he could want."

The Andorian gave him a rather lopsided grin. "You ever been in a delivery room?"

"No."

"Neither have I, but I've heard the stories, and some of them are enough to inspire me to put half a galaxy between me and Jhamel when our turn comes. I don't want my antennae ripped off."

"Or anythin' else," said Trip with a wink.

"No." A dramatic shudder. "This is a job for the proud father, not for talented amateurs."

"Well, unfortunately the proud father doesn't happen to be around this time. An' he sort of left things to me."

Shran's eyebrows rose. "Including his _wife? _ I didn't know your culture went in for bigamy."

"It does not." Trip's real wife entered the room in time to hear the jest. "And even if it did, he and Mrs. Sato-Reed would not be suited."

"Believe me, I've got all the wife I want already." He smiled across the room at her. So Vulcans didn't do jealousy, huh? Tell _that_ to the Klingons. "Hosh' is just a friend. But a special friend. And I'm lookin' after her for another special buddy, 'cause he can't be here to look after her himself." The memory of the loss swept the smile from his face. "How is she?"

"There is no improvement. She co-operates, but that is all." The Vulcan hesitated. "I had wondered whether a mind-meld might perhaps have some effect."

"No," said Trip flatly. "It was one thing when she was okay in herself. Now it's a whole different ball game, and we don't know what's wrong with her or how to fix it. You might end up hurtin' yourself more than helpin' her." He leaned on the table, speaking more emphatically in case she'd got it into her head that this was something she ought to do whether he approved or not. "We've come all this way to bring her to someone who has experience with this kinda thing. Now I know you and Shiránnor didn't exactly hit it off, but you didn't see what I did. I'm not pretendin' I understand how she did it, but I don't think anyone in Starfleet has the kinda ability she has. And that's why I'm pinnin' my faith in her. Ideally, I'd keep Shran's 'half a galaxy' between her and Jon, because meetin' her didn't exactly help him last time, but right now she's the only hope he's got of gettin' over this and keepin' his career. And as for Hoshi, I'm just hopin' she'll be able to help there too. She knew Malcolm. In one way I think she knew him better than any of us ever could. And if there's any way she can make it right for Hoshi, for his sake, I'm sure she will."

"You're assuming she'll be willing to. And that she's still alive," Shran pointed out, pouring himself a drink. "How long is it since you were here? Eight years? A lot could have happened in that time."

"I know she'll be willin'. That's the kind of person she is. But you're right, we haven't any idea whether she's still alive or not." Bleakly he considered that fact. Shiránnor was, after all, a predator; hunting Skair-style was a risky business. And they didn't know what other things could have happened to her either. Kerriel's life style was primitive in a lot of ways. They might have a lot of skill with psychological healing, but garden-variety injuries and diseases were probably treated with more basic remedies. At a guess they had no antibiotics or advanced drugs. Things that back on Earth, or even aboard a starship, would mean no more than a few days in sickbay could be a death sentence on Kerriel.

"How soon will they be in communications range?"

"The question is irrelevant. Their society has no technology to speak of," T'Pol told him. "They have no interest in such things."

The Andorian's eyebrows and antennae quirked up. "And you propose to find her, how?"

"We know where a lot of her people hang out. We'll just go down there and ask." The sensor scans on the shuttle's last visit had indicated the presence of a considerable number of Skaira high in the mountains to the east of Thervanil. It made sense to begin their search there.

* * *

Trip found it difficult to sleep that night. The _Hath_ had never been built with luxury in mind; the guest quarters they'd been allocated could at best be described as spartan. Nevertheless he'd made the best of things, passing some of the time with helping to repair such damage as the ship had sustained during the battle. T'Pol had made strides with upgrading some of the ship's computer systems – Shran had reluctantly agreed to allow her to use her expertise, regardless of 'security implications', and between the two of them there had already been some significant improvements to the ship's performance. Now, as he shifted on the hard mattress trying to get comfortable, he found himself wishing that he'd devoted some of his engineering expertise to their accommodation instead.

He should have been sleeping like a baby. The discomfort of their quarters had not prevented him and his wife from their customary delightful nocturnal activities, and she was curled into his side now, her head in the angle of his shoulder and her arm thrown across his chest. It was difficult for him to tell whether she was asleep or not; her breathing hardly changed when she dozed off, and in their post-coital haze the contact through the bond was just a pleasant background fuzz of satisfaction, void of any particular thoughts. Still, he was restless. They were getting close to Kerriel now, close to the point where their admittedly rather far-fetched hopes were either going to be realized or exposed for the idiocy they probably were in broad daylight.

And what would happen if they failed?

He hadn't wanted to contemplate that possibility, but he was finding it harder and harder to shut it out. They'd have to return to Earth; they had nowhere else to go. Jon would have to go to a mental hospital. Hoshi would have to be transferred to a medical facility for whatever long-term care she needed. The baby … well, convicted criminals probably wouldn't be considered ideal adoptive parents, and when Starfleet had dug out the last detail of the way they'd drugged and abducted their ship's captain when he was in a state of total mental collapse and unable to resist, there was virtually no way they'd escape the sight of the inside of a prison cell – probably for a very long time. Hoshi's abduction would be fuel added to the fire. She wasn't just mentally ill, she was pregnant – and they hadn't even brought anyone along who was experienced in caring for pregnant Andorians, let alone pregnant humans. Suppose she didn't survive the birth? Suppose the baby didn't? Suppose _neither _of them survived it? He could just imagine Malcolm's reaction to that. "I asked you to bloody well _look after them_, you stupid bastard!" The Brit's retaliation, if he'd had the opportunity to produce one, would probably have involved something with a very large gun muzzle and a very, _very_ slow-acting, fatal, and exceedingly painful dosage of radioactivity.

Phlox, too. It was unlikely they could keep him out of it. He'd be disgraced, probably knocked off the medical register on Starfleet _and _Denobula; all that skill, all that learning, all that care, lost and ruined. His conduct was hardly in keeping with any recognized code of care for the sick. Quite possibly he'd be seeing the inside of a cell too. His complicity in the abduction was far too obvious. They should never have gotten him involved.

Shran claimed he could get out of the consequences as far as the Andorian government was concerned. It probably wasn't quite as simple a matter as he'd implied. If they'd had to pick anybody to kidnap in order to cause the maximum possible scandal, it was hard to imagine anyone better suited than Captain Jonathan Archer, hero first of the Expanse and now of the Battle of Cheron. Living down complicity in _that_ was something that defied imagination in anyone's universe.

For the first time in the voyage, the consequences of failure became utterly, shockingly real to him.

T'Pol's eyelashes flickering against his skin told him she was awake. He'd been doing his best to keep his shields up to prevent his anxieties from penetrating through the bond, but he wasn't expert at that yet. For all his efforts, he suspected that he hadn't succeeded half as well as he'd hoped.

And she'd suffer too. She'd thrown in her lot with _Enterprise_ long ago, refusing the High Command's order to leave the ship when it had embarked on that perilous voyage to the Expanse. Later still she'd cast herself further into the void when she married him, making herself an outcast among her own people. But she still had to care for what was left of her reputation; she still had to know what would be said when the news of this got out. So much for 'love, honor and cherish'. He'd married her and brought her to this.

He should have left her on Vulcan.

He should have left her married to Koss – safe, respected, secure.

"I would not have stayed with him, whether you wanted me or not." She spoke softly into the side of his neck, leaving him to wonder how the heck she'd divined so accurately what he was thinking; the bond did not usually convey such specific concepts. "He did not love me, nor I him."

"But Vulcan marriages aren't about _lovin'._" He spoke bitterly. "You would'a been safe. You'd have had kids. You wouldn't be here on this damned wild goose chase, lookin' at a prison term. We've probably risked everything on somethin' that doesn't have a chance of endin' good."

She considered. Her fingers stroked gently along his collar bones and up towards his chin.

"Given the circumstances, I do not see that we could logically have done anything else," she said after a while. "Starfleet has no cure for what ails them. Our decision was based on careful consideration of the known facts."

"Yeah. We considered 'em for all of ten minutes," he reminded her drily. "As I recall, we were pretty well makin' it up as we went along at one point."

"We had no time to do anything else," she pointed out. "And because the decision was arrived at in haste does not necessarily mean that it was the wrong one."

"It's sure startin' to feel like it to me." He stared at the ceiling above their bunk. "And even if by any chance we manage to work the miracle, I can't see Starfleet just turnin' a blind eye to it."

"You would be amazed at what governments will turn a blind eye to in the name of convenience. As long as they get the captain back, they will almost certainly choose to say nothing, whatever they may suspect. In the aftermath of the war, they will have far too many other things to think of to care."

"You know, I never figured you for such a cynic."

"You forget. I was working for the High Command when I was instructed to serve on board _Enterprise._ I have an intimate knowledge of the 1`way governments work."

"Well. Maybe you're right." Her fingers had left his face and were now wandering elsewhere. "And I thought Vulcans didn't believe in miracles."

"I am not sure that you are quite as tired as you might think."

"Keep that up, and I might find a bit of extra energy from somewhere."

"I am relieved to hear it."

And, agreeably for both of them, he did.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"Would anyone mind explaining to me exactly why we had to fly half way around the system to come in at this angle?"

Shran spoke with the air of one who has little expectation of receiving a satisfactory reply. He was therefore not particularly surprised when he didn't. It did not escape him for a moment that the strange trajectory the _Hath_ had adopted on its approach to the third planet in this remote little system had kept the maximum distance possible from the fifth planet; he was becoming accustomed, however, to being little more than a glorified taxi driver on whom nobody bothers to bestow more than the minimum necessary information. He eyed the scanner readouts with interest. At this distance the Andorian ship could pick up little detail (even less than usual since the 'adjustments' Tucker had seen fit to make), but what there was was strange. Doubtless the pinkskins had their reasons for giving it a very wide berth indeed, even if they weren't prepared to share them. Archer had been far too impulsive for his own good sometimes; it didn't take too much imagination to guess that they'd had some kind of run-in with the place that had taught them a hard lesson.

"You don't wanna know," said Trip shortly, from his place just at the rear of the captain's chair on the bridge.

"I do, but I dare say I'm not going to."

"Take it from me. You don't."

"Maybe we could schedule a visit on the way home." As a matter of fact he had no intention of it; if _Enterprise _had learned respect the hard way, the much less formidable _Hath _certainly wasn't going to risk it. Nevertheless, there was no harm in a little provocation. He'd been good for far too long, and Tucker was a promising victim: much less accustomed to controlling his reactions than Archer had been, though even Archer had been fun to rile at first before he wised up to the game and became boring.

"Not if you wanna get home at all."

"_You_ did." His antennae signaled piqued curiosity.

"We were lucky." The dark glance Trip shot at his wife was a telling one. Obviously the Vulcan was the better able of the two to disclose details. Unfortunately, Vulcans weren't noted for their inclination to gossip and T'Pol certainly didn't look inclined to deviate from the norm on this occasion. "Lucky we got out of there at all, if you want the truth."

"You actually landed there?"

"Took a shuttle down for a look," said the engineer briefly. "Didn't get anywhere near landing. We damn near didn't get it back."

"Hostile inhabitants?"

"You could say that."

It was obvious that Tucker had now said all he was going to say on the subject – at least for the present. He crossed his arms and looked almost as Vulcan as his wife. Perhaps it was catching.

Grimacing at that thought, Shran turned his attention to the third planet, which they were now approaching. Standard Minshara-class in Starfleet terminology; almost a fifty-fifty split between ocean and land masses, if first impressions didn't lie. The land was heavily forested except for a couple of swathes of desert near the equator. The atmosphere bore quantities of cloud. A fertile, blue and green planet: too warm for his tastes (though the polar ice caps would be homelike), but humans would find it attractive. He wondered again what it was about it that was so valuable. What were they were so desperate to keep secret?

His second-in-command ran standard checks with the scanners, caught his eye and shrugged. The crew was already aware that their captain's meddlesome guest had interfered with the ship's equipment. As a result, they were able to tell virtually nothing about the planet as they established a high orbit around it. What they could glean from a visual inspection, they were welcome to.

At that moment the door on to the bridge hissed open, and there stood one of their less voluntary passengers. It was the first time since that memorable evening at Starfleet Headquarters that Shran had seen Archer on his own two feet. He'd spent much of the voyage sleeping and most of the remainder withdrawn and silent, refusing to be drawn into conversation on the rare occasions when he actually seemed to know who and where he was. Even his own crew-members seemed to have little luck in getting him to communicate. Every attempt at conversation was a walk onto the thinnest of ice sheets, sheets that could crack underfoot without warning, plunging him back into the freezing icy depths of withdrawal. They'd tried talking to him about their ship, relaying reports of how the repairs to _Enterprise_ were going; Trip had contrived to keep open a line of strictly unofficial communication between himself and the ship, since even at this remove he took the keenest interest in the progress of her restoration. Sometimes Archer listened, expressionless, as though they were speaking a foreign language in which he had no interest, and at other times he turned away, physically rejecting them all by curling up into a ball. The sheer lifelessness of him was appalling; like him or loathe him (and even now Shran wasn't at all sure which he did), Archer had always worn his heart on his sleeve, and there had always been more than enough of it to go round.

It was obvious now how the lack of food and the emotional battleground he'd been in had worn him. He'd lost a considerable amount of weight, and with it some of his strength. He not so much stood as swayed in the doorway, supporting himself with one arm on the side of the frame. His face was gaunt, wasted. His eyes were dull hazel in shadowed hollows, fixed with painful intensity on the viewscreen in front of him.

"You … brought me back?" he rasped at last.

"It was all we could think of, Jon." The faintest stumble betrayed that at the last instant Trip had remembered not to use the other man's title in front of others, though naturally it sprang automatically to his tongue.

"You shouldn't have bothered. I'm not going down there."

"I have news for you, Pinkskin. After we've come all this way, you're going down there whether you like it or not." Shran glared at him. "You can go in a shuttle or you can go through the airlock, it's up to you."

The captain's face contorted. In another life he'd have argued, but he seemed unable to marshal an effective reply. For one horrible minute the Andorian thought he was going to cry again; this was something they'd tried to keep from the gaze of the ordinary members of the crew. Even though they knew him only as Jon Tucker, he was still a starship captain and as such should have his dignity preserved as much as possible in the circumstances. As a fellow captain, Shran had strict views on such matters.

Then it happened.

Even Shran's antennae stood up straight in astonishment as Archer's eyes widened and his gaze went away from the bridge into distance. He looked as though he was listening to a message through an invisible earpiece from someone dear to him who he'd believed dead; joy and incredulity swept over his face like a banner of sunshine across a storm-battered landscape.

"Oh, thank God, she's still alive," Tucker said softly. The relief in his voice was palpable.

Shran swung around to stare at him in amazement. "She knows he's here already?"

"Oh, yes." The human grinned ruefully. "She knows all right."

A narrow-eyed frown. "I'm looking forward to seeing this amazing person for myself."

"You have no idea how amazin' she is till you meet her." His gaze too had become abstracted, but he was now looking at his wife, and if Shran had been in the habit of using human idioms he would have described Trip's expression as 'mushy'. He glanced at T'Pol, and she was returning her husband's gaze; Vulcans didn't do 'mushy', or anything even remotely approximating it, but there was no doubt about it, there was a particular intensity in that wide brown stare that said that _something_ was being exchanged between the two of them.

Given the fact that they shared a cabin and were wearing the identical rings that humans customarily wore to indicate that they were in a quad – he revised that to a 'pair', remembering that humans had less complex familial arrangements – the Andorian had already surmised that the two of them were in a relationship that almost certainly didn't have the blessing of the Vulcan High Council, or probably Starfleet's either. They hadn't made much of a show of it to date; their daily behavior had in fact not been that much different from what he'd noticed when he'd known them only as fellow crewmembers on board _Enterprise_, but you'd have to be blind not to see and understand the significance of their expressions now.

Great. His ship was turning into a love-fest, and Jhamel was back on Andoria.

He just _hated _being the odd man out.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"We are to have visitors today."

The announcement from Shiránnor startled the Skaira, just then assembled in the dining hall eating a leisurely supper of bread and fruit. It had been an uneventful night, and they had been unaware of any messages from the outside world. The Temple Complex on Vanreil was isolated from the world at the best of times, as much by its nature as by its location high in the mountains. Though the passes were rarely completely closed by snow and ice even in the worst of the winter, they were not pleasant or safe to travel while the coldest months gripped the land; now, while the going was still relatively easy, visitors were more likely to arrive, but nobody had reported any, nor had there been mention of Speaking Stones landing on the lawn by the pool to announce one. These were, of course, a relatively rare method of communication, and the arrival of one would have caused a stir.

"Should guest quarters be prepared, First Priestess?" asked Breíth, one of Shiránnor's erstwhile shadows, who still couldn't quite bring herself to abandon the habit of hovering in close proximity. She obviously did so now in hopes of being given something else to do. She had spent the whole night being useful to various surprised members of the community; apparently the novelty hadn't yet worn off.

"Yes. One will need to stay in the Infirmary. Grenyal, she will be in your care: I charge you most strictly with her welfare. The Goddess is with her. She will give birth soon." Shiránnor paused to allow the murmuring to subside. "One will stay with me in my quarters. And the other three…" she paused, a rather wry smile curving her mouth. "For the present, they will use the guest quarters attached to the infirmary."

"Where is the child's father, First Priestess?" asked the Healer curiously. "It is rare for a woman to leave her own house when she is egg-heavy."

The smile deepened. "I had best prepare you," said Shiránnor simply. "The visitors are not Venelai. They are not from this world at all."

There was an infinitesimal pause, and then a babble of questions broke out.

By this time, the story of the visitors from another world some years ago had had time to reach every corner of Kerriel. It had been discussed and marvelled over from palace to cot in every kingdom, and was already on the way to becoming a legend, complete with the inevitable accretions that every legend gathers to itself along the way. The Skaira were not immune to curiosity on that score, though they had the advantage in that three members of their species had been personal witnesses to the visit. The Daughters not only had excellent powers of observation but also precise recollection. The three had passed on a great deal of extremely accurate information, even going so far as to recruit the services of an Artisan to record the appearance of the visitors for posterity. Artefacts that the visitors had handled or touched were smelled carefully to record their unique personal scents; Shiránnor herself had a cushion in her quarters that one of them had sat on, Princess Fetharan a cup that he had drunk from. The company therefore greeted the news with more excitement and interest than apprehension.

"Are these the same as you met before, First Priestess?" asked Fassery.

"Indeed they are." She inclined her head. "They are in need of our help, and they shall have it."

"The child is well?" demanded Grenyal sharply. Her usual rather vague and sleepy manner had sloughed off like a slitherer's skin at the prospect of such a challenge to her skills.

"I believe so. But the mother is not. We shall speak more of this presently. I would speak with the members of my council before you retire to sleep." Her gaze swept the Hall. "You will all have occasion to see our visitors and speak with them. But bear in mind that they are strangers to our world and our people. And they are weary and hurt. Treat them with every consideration. That is my strictest command."

Such was the power of her rank that the Goddess Herself might have given the order. Her subordinates nodded as one, half-exposing their wrists in acknowledgement.

* * *

"We are all tired and it is time for sleep, so I will be brief." She looked around her Audience Chamber, where her council had assembled; it was not a formal meeting, nor would it be a long one, so it had seemed absurd to convene it in the Council Chamber. "I have already told you that one of the visitors is a woman far gone in childbearing. The Star People have all been involved in a great battle, and her husband was killed. But she is so sick with grief for his loss that he will not enter the Boat. Thus both he and she are not-here and not-there. You will need no telling how dangerous this is. I am not sure yet how this should be dealt with and I welcome any suggestions you may have." She locked eyes with Grenyal, who nodded imperceptibly; they would discuss this in more detail later.

"The visitor who will be staying with me is their commanding officer. He has been wounded in the heart of his being, and the Star People cannot heal him. I who am his friend can do this, but it will take a little time." She met Jerhazy's outraged stare calmly. They had all naturally taken it for granted that the visitor who would be sharing Shiránnor's quarters would be a female; it was bad enough for male visitors to be harboured at the Complex at all in some of the more conservative priestesses' views, but for a man to actually be a guest _in the First Priestess's house_ was verging on scandalous.

"And there is one last thing of all that you need to know. Two of the Star People who will be staying in the Guest Quarters are childless. It is in my heart that if they so wish they should be included the Tenth Hour ceremony."

It was probably fortunate that they had already been jolted out of their customary complacency by the events thus far. This announcement was the last straw. Every one of them gasped aloud.

_"Star People?" _ Every individual hair of the fur on Horlath's lower body was standing on end; she resembled nothing so much as a dappled grey Skair-shaped cloud. Her eyes were fairly starting out of her head. Her tail stood upright, even the ultra-sensitive tip of it rigid with shock. Even her whiskers looked aghast.

"Is there any reason why they should be refused?" enquired Shiránnor tranquilly. "It is to take place shortly, and the chosen couples will begin arriving soon. It seems to me that there is a pattern emerging; why else should they come at this particular time, childless as they are?"

"But what if the Goddess is offended?" demanded Horlath. She was the presiding Priestess on this occasion; it was her responsibility to ensure that everything was done exactly in the way it ought. "There are already ten couples, and there are always only ten. Besides, the Star People are not of our world. Their Gods too may be offended!"

"It seems to me that there is fully time enough for us to be told of it if the Goddess has any objection." The First's voice was still mild. "It has not been drawn to my attention that the Seer has crossed the Ocean, and a priestess still keeps vigil in the Sacred Cave, as far as I know. As for the Star People, it is up to them to know whether their Gods will be offended. I do not say that the decision will be easy, but it is not ours to make. We can only make the offer. It is up to them to refuse or to accept."

Her logic was unanswerable, but the perturbation of her juniors was not based on logic. Horlath and Jerhazy were the most senior members of the Council and she could see that neither of them was even close to being reconciled to the idea.

"With respect, I would suggest that it is not only our place, but our _duty_, to establish without doubt that such a departure does not constitute heresy. The Tenth Hour ceremony is one of the holiest on the divine calendar –"

"Priestess Jerhazy, I do not need reminding how important the ceremony is." Shiránnor's voice had become even quieter. The word 'heresy' was an incendiary one and she did not think Jerhazy had used it accidentally.

"You are young, First Priestess, and lack a little experience. I simply suggest –"

"I suggest that you stop immediately, Priestess, before I forget your years of service and send you to conduct the Good Goddess's worship in the Outer Islands!" The First's anger came like lightning out of a clear sky. Half of the council skittered backwards, spitting with fright. "I may lack experience but I do not lack faith. I suggest you recall that the Mother is more than capable of making Her objections known to us if she wishes to do so. Also that I am set over you by Her authority, and that it is your duty to obey me. I have every care for the great heritage that has been handed down to me. I have every intention of seeing that not a word or a gesture is forgotten, that not one iota of what is owing to Her is neglected. I need no one to teach me reverence, and you will be silent!"

They had not seen the lightning flash before, and were blinded by it. She was indeed young, the youngest Skair ever to be appointed to her elevated rank, and they had been misled by her soft speech and winning ways into thinking that she was easy meat. Jerhazy sat stunned, her mouth open but containing no words.

"That is all for the present," she told them in her usual calm manner. "I ask for your prayers for our visitors and for me, that I may be guided in the work I have to do. Now it behoves us all to rest so that we may be at our best when they arrive."

There were no protests, though she could guess that for some if not all of them sleep would be slow in coming. She could guess at two among their number who would be far more interested in talk than sleep. The evening sun would find wakeful heads in one house at least. Still, perhaps they would be successful in talking out their fears. She certainly hoped so; such divisions as these were one of the more pressing reasons why she feared that the arrival of visitors from another world could be damaging. It was one of the more unfortunate consequences of the priestesses' living isolated among the mountains that malefolk, who so rarely set foot there, could begin to acquire an almost malevolent aspect to them. Their faith did not teach this; the two sexes were equally valued, equally precious to the Gods. But it was an easy error for an exclusively female species to fall into. It required no divine revelation to tell her that for many of her juniors, 'male' would be the equivalent of 'pollutant' where proximity to anyone of her elevated rank was concerned. They felt that she should keep her distance, preserve her dignity, manifest Shieih at Her most terrible. But that was not her way. It never would be. And she had been appointed to lead, to teach, to serve, in the way that she herself found most fitting. She could not, she _would not_, fit into the mould. The Goddess had set her here. She had to remain true to herself, or she would be true to nothing.

She could, and would, simply demand their obedience if all else failed. But that was not the way she wanted it to be. Tyranny never had been and never would be the way she wished to rule.

She would need all the prayers she could get over the next days. If not, indeed, for the rest of her life.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"After I've brought you all this way, I'm not about to be left up here while you pinkskins go running your heads into trouble!"

Shran stood beside the shuttlecraft, hands on his hips and a belligerent expression on his face. "You don't know the first thing about what you'll find down there," he continued. "And I want to meet this lion lady of yours. If I can't get any other payment for coming here, at least I want that."

He glared at his four alien passengers. Two of them were standing properly, two of them were standing more or less. Archer wasn't much better than he'd been earlier, but seemed to have retreated into abstraction. The lieutenant's widow looked as though she was sleepwalking; it was the first time he'd seen her this closely since she'd been carried on board, and he thought she looked almost as exhausted as her ex-Captain. There were violet shadows under her lifeless eyes and her hair was dull and dry. The Vulcan had one arm around her waist, partially supporting her as she stood braced against the weight of her bulging stomach. At least she hadn't gone into labor on board ship, though by the size of her it surely couldn't be long now.

"We know we'll be okay. It's you we're worried about; can't you get that into your head?" demanded Trip. "If Shiránnor decides you're a threat, Jhamel won't even get enough of you back to bury!"

"I think I can handle the situation." The Andorian glowered. "You've disabled my ship's sensors so I don't know what's so valuable down there, and you're going to make sure we can't find our way back. How much of a threat can we be?"

"Let him come if he wants it so much." Archer lifted his head and spoke indifferently, slurring his words a little. "She won't let him do any damage."

Tucker glanced across at his commanding officer and exhaled. "Fine. It's your funeral."

They all got into the shuttle. Now that he'd achieved his aim, Shran naturally took up the pilot's seat; he was reasonably confident that the pinkskin engineer could have handled the craft adequately even though he probably couldn't read Andorian script all that well, but he still felt better flying it himself. "You'll trust me with the co-ordinates, or do I take a guess?" he asked rather sarcastically.

"Puttin' 'em in now." Trip had taken the navigator's seat and now proved he hadn't wasted his time during the voyage by the deftness with which he entered the digits into the console.

_Hath_'s loading bay doors opened and the shuttle slid gently out into free space. As soon as it was clear, the engine fired and the craft turned smoothly away, heading down towards the planet's atmosphere.

"We'll probably hit some turbulence," warned Shran after a few minutes. "Couldn't you find anywhere easier to land than a mountain range?"

"Gotta go where the lady is." Trip glanced at Archer, who sat in the back of the shuttle with an expression of exhausted apathy. The captain's brief moment of connection with Shiránnor hadn't given them much concrete information regarding her whereabouts, but he hadn't actually said she wasn't where they were going, so they were holding to their original plan. "Might be wise to strap yourselves in," he added, obviously seeing for himself that the readouts on the navigation console weren't looking particularly reassuring – and in her state, Hoshi didn't need any jolting.

T'Pol took charge of this operation. If either of the other two heard, they didn't react. Archer looked through her, Hoshi gave her a single incurious glance and looked out of the window again, not seeming particularly interested in that either.

The sensors were correct. The shuttle very soon began to encounter savage cross-winds driving through the mountain passes, and its smooth flight deteriorated into something considerably less comfortable. An air pocket dropped them several meters and stopped them hard. A whimper of discomfort from Hoshi in the back of the craft made Trip snatch a glance from his console; Shran was too busy to hear it, and only knew something was wrong when his navigator made as if to stand. "Stay where you are!" he snapped.

Blue eyes met brown, and some message passed. Wordlessly Trip sat down again and resumed monitoring the display.

The valley opened in front of them suddenly. The difficulty lay in that it was thickly wooded, with few level spaces in which to set down safely. Almost in the middle, however, was a cluster of buildings, with an open space in the center. A large pool reflected the blue early afternoon sky, but there was a grassy space beside it on which a shuttle could land.

"I'd feel more confident about this if the wind would drop," said Trip, holding on to the edge of the console as the shuttle bucked again during its approach.

Shran pretended not to hear it. He was too busy balancing the craft on air currents that were alternately playful and downright vicious. He didn't have time to worry about whether there would be anyone in the way by the time they got there; _Hath _had only one shuttle, and her transporter wasn't exactly reliable. If he messed the landing up, their way home might be problematic. Not that he was going to admit that to the _Enterprise_ crew. Nevertheless, he thought grimly to himself that it was just as well he'd insisted on taking the helm himself; every craft has its own idiosyncrasies, and while he didn't doubt Tucker's ability with his own, in conditions like this, experience told.

"Life signs around the landing area."

"They'll just have to get out of the way!" A particularly nasty gust of wind tossed the shuttle up like a toy. The Andorian compensated for it with thrusters, dropping the nose hard. The gust died spitefully and the craft plunged earthwards under power. Using words that were probably not meant for polite company, Shran dragged it up. Engines bellowing, it plunged between two houses, ploughed into a flowerbed and came to a halt.

"Nice smooth landin'." The engineer peeled his torso off the console and his face off the display.

Shran forbore to comment. He recollected just in time that there were ladies present, and he didn't want to send one of them into premature labor with what he actually wanted to say.

* * *

"I am pleased to meet with you again, Commander Tucker. Sub-Commander T'Pol." The amber gaze found Shran and took him in with little more than amused curiosity. "Please introduce me to your friend."

There weren't many Skaira who could have looked utterly unaware of the fact that they were up to their hocks in disturbed earth and broken plants as they made the acquaintance of a new species. Shiránnor appeared to regard it as simply part of the entertainment. Observing this, Trip decided that the intervening years hadn't changed her much. She was still cute and crazy. And her pronunciation was just the same as it had been, mangling their names and titles with that quaint and characteristic guttural.

"Shiránnor – "

He'd hardly got the word out of his mouth before another of the Skaira, standing directly behind her, interrupted.

"The term you should use is '_First Priestess'_," she snapped.

"The term he could have used is 'Old friend', Jerhazy," said the First gently. "I have no quarrel with my name in his mouth."

"Shiránnor, I'd like you to meet an old acquaintance of ours, Commander Shran from Andoria." She extended a hand to grip the blue wrist; Shran responded in kind, studying her carefully and curiously, though he didn't speak. "He's been kind enough to bring us here, because our own ship was too damaged to fly. We need your help, if you're able. And willin'." The words started off on a note of slight defiance; he didn't care for being told by a total stranger how to address someone he thought of as a friend, but they ended on one that didn't try to conceal his anxiety.

"I know your need. We will gladly do all that we can to help. Be welcome here." The smile had lost none of its charm, though it was a little shadowed because of the circumstances. "Are your passengers well enough for me to speak to them?"

"Of course. Though Hoshi…" He hesitated. "I don't think she'll answer ya. And Jon … well I guess you already know."

"Yes. I know. And I know of her loss. I am sorry." Genuine grief swept across her face. "The First Among Healers has asked that she be brought into the Infirmary as soon as possible, so that she may be cared for properly. You will need to give her any guidance you can on what your people's birthing practices are."

"I have brought all the necessary data with me." T'Pol had downloaded all of Phlox's helpful hints on human childbirth onto a padd. She met Shiránnor's gaze calmly as it moved to her. "It is agreeable to meet you again, First Priestess. I will be glad to advise your doctors and attend at the birth, if required."

"That is for Grenyal to decide. I do not trespass on her province." The tongue protruded a little in the quirky grin. "Commander Shran, may I enter your vessel?"

The white eyebrows lifted at the way she pronounced his name; the Skair guttural sounded as if she was chewing something, growling as she did so. He'd had enough warning that it would happen, but obviously it still came as something of a surprise when he actually heard it.

"Come aboard. You're welcome." He stepped back out of the hatch, and she leapt lightly inside. The twenty or so Skaira who'd been behind her craned their necks, plainly eaten with mingled curiosity and apprehension for her safety. Trip turned immediately to see what effect her arrival had on the two casualties. Jon was rigid in his chair, straining against the seatbelts. He wasn't trying to rise, simply staring at her with a hunger that was far past what it was right to see on another human being's face.

"Shiránnor," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

"My friend. My dear friend." She hurried over to him and enveloped him in a bear hug. "They have brought you back to me, and you will be well again."

The sounds that emerged from the man clinging to her were awful, unstrung, hardly containing a single coherent word. She looked up at the ceiling as if pleading for inspiration, her own eyes wet. "No, my friend. None of this was fault of yours. Sleep now. Sleep and do not dream till you can again without harm. I will help you." She looked down again and watched the rumpled thatch of brown hair slide slowly sideways, the face beneath it now blank and peaceful.

"He will not wake now till I call him," she said quietly. In answer to her call, two other Skaira jumped into the shuttle, looking around them with wary faces.

The clips of the seatbelts resisted her questing fingers for only a second. "Carry him to the guest room in my quarters and leave him there. I will join him shortly."

They were a little awkward about lifting him, but they were careful. His weight was evidently no problem at all; they carried him between them, one with her arms under his head and shoulders and the other supporting his pelvis and legs. As they left the shuttle, a little awkwardly because there was perhaps half a meter's distance between the hatch and the floor, the other Skaira eddied closer, almost pushing one another in the effort to see him better. Their mouths were open in what looked like astonishment, though the hush of indrawn air revealed that they were in fact inhaling his scent. At least they were more nosy than hostile, thought Trip with relief, watching an unconscious Jon being carried off through the crowd.

Shiránnor had now turned to Hoshi. The lifeless almond eyes stared past her, uncaring, though they blinked when the hands – claws carefully sheathed – came to rest lightly on her swollen abdomen.

The Skair breathed deeply. A shiver ran through her. _"Hello, Princess," _she murmured lovingly.

"Damnation!" Trip took a step forward, unable to believe what he'd heard. Her _accent_ – just for a moment, there'd been no trace of guttural in it. It had been _British._

And Hoshi cried out – a single, small sound of unbearable longing. As though she'd gasped it in her sleep.

Abruptly Shiránnor stepped backwards. The fur all along her lower spine had lifted into a thick blonde hedge. "She must go to the Infirmary at once. The cub is in danger."

"I will carry her." T'Pol unfastened the seatbelts and lifted the inert woman without apparent effort. "Please show me where she needs to be taken."

"I will take you there." She led the way out of the shuttle, leaning up to steady the Vulcan in the descent. A rather older Skair with tawny hair and fur and a deceptively sleepy expression immediately stepped forward.

"This is she of whom we spoke, First Priestess?"

"It is. But the situation is worse than I had thought. If we do not find a way to deal with it, they will both follow him."

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"I see why she made such an impression on you." Shran glanced up from the goblet of wine he'd been cautiously tasting. "They're … well, I haven't seen anything like them before."

"You don't know the half of it." Trip was sitting by the window, staring moodily out across the darkening valley.

The two of them had been escorted to the infirmary, which was a long, low single-story building pierced with windows down its length. The main part of it contained a double row of plain pallet beds, twelve in all, each large enough to accommodate a Skair in comfort. None of them was currently occupied. The floor was of plain slate, immaculately clean; the walls were whitewashed, with no decoration of any kind, though each of the window niches contained a small vase of flowers. At one end there was a suite of rooms that was evidently prepared for visitors, and they'd been shown there and left temporarily to their own devices. There was a kind of lounge, where they found comfortable chairs and several well padded sofas, plus a long table and benches that were pushed to one side. Several unlit braziers stood ready in the event that the night should become cold, but the windows had crude glass in them that served to keep the temperature quite bearable.

Hoshi had been carried to the infirmary too, but she'd been taken into another suite of rooms at the far end, presumably the Healer's quarters and surgery. There was an interconnecting door but it was firmly closed. So far they'd both resisted the urge to try and see if it was locked too, though if the wait went on too long the temptation might become irresistible.

They'd had made a brief tour of the visitors' rooms, more out of inquisitiveness than anything else. There were two bedrooms, both with very large circular and slightly hollowed-out beds filled with cushions and topped with layers of hand-woven blankets. There wasn't anything else much by way of furniture.

"So, enlighten me." The survey so far hadn't revealed anything extraordinary. Although many of the Skaira had been wearing jewelry, some of it considerably finer than the rather primitive architecture of this place had led him to expect, there was no evidence of fabulous wealth. And though they were certainly remarkable enough to look at – he'd never seen any race before that had evolved in anything like that form – they hadn't given any indication so far of qualities which might inspire such marked respect as the Starfleet crew evidently felt for them. Shran felt free to indulge his curiosity with a little questioning. "Exactly what's so special about these people? I've seen for myself they're telepathic."

"We told you most of what we know on the way here."

"So tell me again. We've got nothing else to do."

The human sighed. "Did we tell you they're parthenogenetic?"

Shran frowned; he was fairly fluent in English, but his vocabulary didn't run to such abstruse terms. He reached for the UT that was necessary to communicate with the Skaira, who naturally spoke their own language, and switched it on again. "Say again."

"'Parthenogenetic.' They don't have males. They're all female. Born pregnant." The explanation made the UT redundant, which was irritating to say the least.

"Why didn't you say that the first time round?" he asked testily.

"I wasn't thinkin'. Sorry." The engineer was still looking out of the window, evidently not in the mood for a squabble.

Shran downed the rest of the wine, thinking that for females these Skaira certainly knew how to produce alcohol; even by Andorian standards, this was eye-watering stuff. The taste wasn't even close to 'delicious', but the kick of it almost knocked one backwards. "Do they ferment this or pass it?" he asked somewhat ungratefully, grimacing at the aftertaste.

"Actually they don't even make it. I'm not even sure they drink it. One of the other peoples make it – little folks who live in the forest and think they're related to trees."

"'People who think they're related to trees.'" The Andorian scowled. He began to think that the people on this world didn't have so much of an alcohol problem as a reality problem. "Is this some kind of a joke?"

"Actually, no. We saw them when we were here last. Though they were asleep at the time. Hibernatin'. In a room underground. And believe it or not, they were attached to a tree by their fingers."

"Better and better." His antennae curved eloquently. "This place gets crazier by the minute."

"The further you get, the crazier it gets. Their Emperor has to fight his chief warlord every seven years, and whoever wins gets the throne. And nobody seems to _mind._" Tucker shook his head, remembering. "It works, I suppose. And one thing you'd better bear in mind – they take their gods real seriously. _Everybody _here does. It's not just lip service, either."

"Crazy from the inside out, then." His eyes narrowed when there was no response. "You're not telling me you believe it too!"

A shrug. "I don't know what I believe. But Shiránnor believes it, and she's no fool."

"She doesn't have to be a fool to believe in the supernatural. Though it helps." Shran grinned. "I suppose if you're brought up with that sort of thing, you don't question it. And if they take it that seriously, you're not allowed to question it."

"I didn't believe it before I came here. Now – I suppose I have to call myself open-minded. Things happened that I couldn't find any rational explanation for."

The Andorian grunted scornfully. "People have always used gods to explain things that they haven't been able to account for in a rational way. That doesn't mean they actually exist. Better explanations come along, and the gods get smaller and disappear."

"If you'd seen what I saw you might think differently. But I'll tell you this: Shiránnor has some kind of power that I've never seen before, wherever it comes from. And though even without the 'god' thing she might come across as all cute and cuddly, don't be fooled. Those big padded paws have darn big claws in 'em, and I've seen her use 'em." His gaze sharpened. "Speak of the devil, she's bringin' T'Pol back."

* * *

"Hoshi is settled and quiet. Grenyal is watching over her. I think that there is no immediate danger, though that may change." Shiránnor subsided on to the floor with a sigh. "If it does, she will inform you at once."

"But what 'danger' are you talkin' about?" asked Trip. "Is there somethin' wrong with the pregnancy?"

"Not in itself, as far as we can tell. Your 'data-base' was very informative. T'Pol here helped us with that, and we are confident that we can deal with any problems that might occur when labour begins. The problem lies with the father's continued presence. He is close to the Ocean, and therefore they are perilously close to it too." Seeing puzzled expressions, she elucidated. "I am sorry, it is the way we speak of such things. He has begun his journey through death, but cannot complete it. Hoshi will not release him and I do not believe that he wants to release her. That is what is wrong. And eventually she may choose to join him rather than to release him, and the cub will almost certainly follow if that happens."

The looks of puzzlement had now become frowns of incredulity. Even T'Pol, who was used to diplomatically concealing her disbelief beneath at least a veneer of imperturbability, was evidently finding it difficult to do so in this case.

"No, I'm sorry. I can't go along with this." Shran stood up, shaking his head. "With all due respect, you die and that's an end of it."

"It is usually an end, yes." Shiránnor nodded, evidently taking no offense. "Unfortunately, I think that I may be partly responsible for this situation."

"You?" said Trip blankly.

"Yes. He and I were linked very closely. I fear that it may have given him some – ability – that otherwise he would not have had. He perceives where he is, he understands what is happening. He has the strength to resist and the ability to reason. And he will not give in."

"He always was a stubborn son of a bitch," muttered Trip. "But how the hell can he be stubborn when he's dead?"

"Because he loves," she said quietly.

"Love dies when you die." The Andorian had his arms folded and was wearing his most pugnacious expression. "There is nothing else."

"You are entitled to your beliefs." The Skair looked across at him tranquilly. "But your beliefs will not help the situation here. Mine, perhaps, may."

"How, exactly?"

She paused for a long moment. "I know what is happening because I have spoken with him."

Shran shook his head. It was obviously a long way past his capacity to believe. T'Pol looked a little less disbelieving; Vulcans, after all, believed in the continued existence of the _katra_ after death. Through the bond Trip felt her conflict. Almost against her will she'd come to have considerable respect for the Skair, but this claim was pushing it to its limits. _Speaking_ with someone who was dead? You could speak to them, okay, but as for them answering ….

"So if you 'spoke with him'," he said cautiously, in the voice of one who will allow a statement to stand for the sake of argument, "how come you didn't tell him the trouble he's causin'?"

"He is not precisely 'causing' it. He is as much the victim of it as the cause of it. He feels her grief so keenly that he will not hurt her further by leaving her; she cannot begin to heal until he is no longer with her. And so there is no progress possible for either of them. But this situation cannot continue indefinitely. And time is running out." She paused again. "If she has not begun labour by this time tomorrow, Grenyal will make her do so."

"Won't that hurt her?"

"She thinks it the lesser of two risks. Marginally." Her flanks heaved in a sigh. "We shall take her to the Shrine. In such circumstances as these, it is the safest place I can think of."

"'Safe'?" Shran frowned in puzzlement. "Safe from what?"

Shiránnor looked across at him, and for once there was not a trace of a smile on her face. "Safe to do what I may have to do, before this is over."

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

The terrible reality of Jonathan's plight kept Shiránnor from sleep that night. Over and over again she fell into a doze, only to jerk awake, hissing with pity and horror. More than once she rose and went into the room where he slept, and couched down beside him, examining with sorrow the lines that had not been on his face when he had left her last. Finally, understanding that sleep would not come, she remained there, watching him sleep instead, while from time to time her hand stroked gently across his forehead or his hair, Sending him the sense of her presence.

He had changed so much!

So much pain, so much guilt. His God had asked too much of him. Finally he had broken, had fallen back inside himself, seeking out the one core of comfort that had remained intact.

_When your loneliness becomes too great…._

It had saved him from madness. But it was not enough. They understood that – those two who had finally found one another; in the midst of the sorrow, she sensed it and was glad. They had brought him back, for the third time and the last. He did not belong here, but he could find what he needed to enable him to return to his own place and his own world. She could do this for him, and then at last she could take away his memory of her, as a thing he would no longer need till they met again beyond the Endless Ocean, where all friendships will be renewed and brought to perfection.

Curiously she examined those other people who flew in the sky ship that now circled the world, patiently waiting. Their commander in particular was strong and strange; her whiskers flirted as she considered him. He and his kind were different from the humans. Their emotions were loud, turbulent. It would not be well if they came down to Kerriel and encountered others less able to cope with them than Skaira; they would disturb the peace. Though that one would indeed fit in well with the Venel Warrior Class.

And the other?

She blinked and frowned. Her hackles shifted. There and not-there. Here and not-here. Something was _very_ wrong.

For a Skair of her power, touching a mind that she had joined (even all those years ago) was not difficult. The wrongness lay in its presence where it was – so close to the place where what remained of its earthly existence now resided. After touching Hoshi, she had had little difficulty in identifying the problem. Solving it would be a different thing altogether.

She had told her three visitors back in the Infirmary that she had spoken to Malcolm. It had not been a perfectly accurate description; it was certainly contact, but rather more complex and diffuse in nature than mere speech. Communication as they understood it would require taking a risk that was possibly the greatest she had ever taken in her life – or, indeed, ever expected to. But it was beginning to dawn on her that it was a risk she was going to have to take. The First Priestess could not hold her hand from helping those in such desperate need because of any personal danger involved.

She slipped from her couch and went outside. The sun was rising; it was going to be a beautiful day. Although there was always a regretful tinge to the autumn sunshine and it was hard to see the days shorten, this was a time of plenty, when kills were fat from a summer's feeding and fruit and ear ripened to harvest. Soon would come the time of gathering, so that the store-rooms would be filled to sustain them during the lean months to come. Truly the Temple Complex in the shadow of Vanreil was a wonderful place to live!

Nevertheless she did not pause to enjoy the view as she ordinarily would have done. Instead she hurried towards the foot of the Great Way. She needed to set herself at the Mother's very Paws now. No lesser protection would suffice – and even then, there was no saying that her safety would be guaranteed.

Anxiety did not make her neglect the due courtesy. The duty priestess keeping vigil would not have noticed anything amiss as she arrived, though a soft note of warning thrummed through the wall of the Seer's cell as she passed, so low it was hardly audible even to one whose ears were stretched for it.

She paced over and couched in front of the Image. Her hearts were beating rather fast. The crystal eyes gazed down at her, wise and terrible.

"Mother, with Your guidance," she breathed. Then she exposed her wrists and opened her mind, seeking him.

* * *

She found him almost at once. The cool air brushed against her face, smelling of seaweed and salt; the sand was soft underfoot.

A small boat was resting, empty, in the sand at the edge of the tide, rocking a little as the wavelets lifted it. She knew whence it had come and why; only this vessel had the power to cross the Endless Ocean and reach the far shore in safety. It was made of pale smooth wood, with a high carved prow and stern and two thwarts, in the rearmost of which the mast was stepped. The prow faced out to sea and the dark blue sail was ready to set, but there was not yet enough breeze to fill it. On the horizon lay a faint light, like that of the dawn, but above her arched the measureless dome of starry space. The breath caught in her throat at the beauty of it all.

And he was sitting on the sand. He was facing the boat, a bare body-length away from it. He knew it had come for him, and he was flatly refusing to get into it.

She knew that what she was seeing was what she expected to see, the imagery of her culture and her faith. Doubtless he would see things differently. But whatever he was seeing, he knew exactly what he was doing.

_Mutiny._

The awe of the place calmed her. She padded forward and couched down beside him, but at a little distance so that he should not feel threatened by her presence in any way.

They knew one another too intimately to need any acknowledgement; their minds joined seamlessly as though the intervening years had never happened.

"I can't go," he said at last.

"You must." Her voice was tender, but the truth was unalterable.

"I know. But I can't. She needs me."

"That is not your decision."

"It is if I decide not to go." But as she glanced sideways she saw that the grey eyes were full of the dawn light, and the longing for it was breaking his heart.

"Do you remember, when we were together – before?" he asked presently, after a long silence.

"I remember." Skaira were made to remember things. They had phenomenal memories.

"I forgot about a lot of it, but since I've been here I've remembered them. And one thing you told me. That I _would_ find someone special and marry her. That – something I was afraid of wouldn't happen." He blinked. Even now, speaking of such personal things was hard for him. "It wasn't long afterwards that Hoshi and I … I've always been grateful to you for that."

"Your marriage was your doing. It was none of mine. If you were not worthy of love, you would not have earned it."

"But if it wasn't for you, I don't think I'd ever have believed in myself enough to try."

She smiled faintly. "I did only what was put into my hands to do. If it brought you joy, I am glad."

There was another long pause. The sound of the wavelets was infinitely soothing. The dawn light beckoned. Even she, for whom the boat would not come for many years yet, could feel the calling of it, summoning him home. And yet he still sat, legs crossed, arms folded defiantly across his chest. He was wearing the blue uniform he had worn when he came back to meet with her on his last visit. Its presence on him here was significant. Duty before everything.

"It is she who will not let you go."

If he'd been a Skair his ears would have flattened instantly against his skull. He would not hear a word of criticism of his wife. His profile was rigid with pain and anger, but however much he wished for it, self-incriminating lies would not come to him here.

She contemplated that certainty in silence. If he had been determined enough, selfish enough, he could have broken free. The only thing that was holding him here was love. Because his wife could not bear his loss, and because he could not bear to cause her pain.

"You cannot return," she said gently. "Until you go, she cannot begin to grieve. And until she grieves, she cannot begin to heal."

That hit. And hurt. His mouth flinched.

"Your child will need her." Her voice was even quieter. She hated the awful necessity of it, even as she went on cutting into him. "Your friends are not enough. Your princess will need her mother."

"She'll need her father too!" Suddenly his voice was shockingly loud. He screamed his grief at her, his eyes blazing with a pain too intense for tears. "But I can't be there for her!"

"That is a truth for which there is no consolation possible on this side of the Ocean. But you still hold her heart in your hands. You gave her existence. Then you gave her life a second time. Now you must give her her mother back."

"I can't!" he shouted. "Don't you understand, I can't!"

He jumped to his feet. His fists were clenched. He stared at the boat, then with a helpless expression he turned and looked back over his shoulder.

"How can she let me go?" he asked softly. "We never even said goodbye."

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

**"**You mean… this thing _works?_ Every time?"

Trip stopped and stared at her. Shiránnor halted too. Her face was serene, compassionate.

"Yes. Every time."

She'd brought him outside ostensibly to discuss Jon and Hoshi, without disturbing T'Pol's meditation. The Vulcan had asked for half an hour of quiet, and as it was a pleasant day a stroll around the Complex seemed the best way of suiting everybody. However, it had emerged almost at once that this had been a pretext on her behalf. What she really wanted to talk to him about was another manifestation of just how far apart her world was from his own.

He was, first and foremost, a man who dealt with realities. Engineering schematics did not have any tolerance whatsoever for things that 'happened for no reason.' If he could find an explanation, he could deal with it. That was the way his mind worked, that was the way he'd been trained to think. In his own way and in his own field, he could almost out-logic his wife. Things didn't _just happen_. Everything he'd ever encountered had 'cause and effect.' It was just that sometimes 'cause' took a bit of finding, even if 'effect' smacked you upside the jaw.

He had to admit, though, that something had happened on their last visit here that still defied his attempts to track down any cause. T'Pol had come here a very sick woman – a dying woman, as fiercely as he'd tried to deny that fact to himself at the time. A conventional cure (conventional by this world's strange standards, at least, and presumably one with some basis in science if anyone had cared to look closely enough) had existed, and they'd been in a desperate search for it when Something Else had intervened. Intervened in the very nick of time, and not a day had passed since that he hadn't given thanks for it. But to whom he gave thanks, he couldn't possibly have said. And how it had happened, and why, he had even less idea.

Shiránnor dealt on a daily basis with a world in which things like this were, if not the norm, at least a possibility. To the best of his knowledge, she hadn't had a thing to do with those events, though she'd certainly been in the vicinity and she was the sort of person whom one could never quite dissociate from amazing acts of kindness. Right at their first encounter she'd pushed him and T'Pol together, understanding before they did themselves that they were meant for each other. Now, however, she was explaining the existence of something else that was utterly and totally outside his universe. It was some kind of ceremony, one they performed every year on this world, during the course of which, couples who'd had problems with infertility supposedly got the problem solved 'by the gift of the Goddess' – or by magic, in other words. And Shiránnor was suggesting – with the utmost seriousness – that he and T'Pol might want to take part. His first, instinctive, almost overwhelming reaction was to laugh. The second was to run.

A part of his mind registered surprise that T'Pol hadn't picked up immediately on his mental turmoil. Normally in situations like this she'd have come out of her white space at once and charged to his side, ready in his defense just as he would have been in hers. He still suspected that in her Vulcan way she didn't really approve of Shiránnor – the Skair's effervescent and unpredictable enjoyment of life was perilously illogical. If the First Priestess realized this, it certainly didn't trouble her; he didn't think he'd ever met anyone so free from self-doubt, but her boundless confidence was simply another part of her charm. Nor did it abate in the least her evident wish to promote their wedded bliss – as evidenced by this latest astonishing offer.

"I wished to speak of this to you first," Shiránnor said tranquilly, resuming her slow pacing around the border of the pond. T'Pol was still back in the infirmary; Shran was in the shuttle, tinkering, apparently unaware that he had an audience of fascinated cubs of various ages peering through the door at him, as well as several adults who were sedulously pretending they were only there to keep the youngsters in line. "It was not for any wish of secrecy; all that I have said to you alone I will say again to both of you. Your wife does not wholly trust me, and she has reasons that seem to her good and sufficient. Moreover, she carries even more wounds than you do – from the loss of her people as well as the loss of her cub."

_Elizabeth._ His eyes pricked at the memory even now. A clawed hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder, and he nodded, for the moment not trusting himself to speak.

"My aim was not – as she would reasonably suspect – to recruit you to my schemes. I have placed the situation before you and will do no more. My care is that you should be in the best position to support her when I speak to you both openly. She is one of the strongest people I have ever known, but she needs you very greatly. Therefore, and for that reason only, I have spoken to you in secrecy. So that you can be free to concentrate on how this will affect her."

"She's not gonna like it." He found his voice. It was creditably steady.

"No." Her gaze was bleak. "It will run counter to everything in which she has ever believed."

"It doesn't exactly fit into my world view either."

"No. But I think there remains in your people a facility to step beyond facts that hers rejected long ago. You do not scorn dreams of the impossible. You tell stories, you play, you take risks. When the need is there, you defy even logic itself. Reason is not the be-all and end-all of your thought. Into that enchanted space – the place of your dream – the impossible may step."

_The place of your dream. _The place where little Elizabeth hadn't had to die; where she lived and thrived, and learned to call him 'Daddy'. Where he carried her piggy-back and taught her how to fish, where her laughter was the sound that he heard sometimes in the moments between waking and sleeping. Where she had him wrapped around her little finger and T'Pol was the one who had to keep the balance, because there was no way in hell he'd ever have been able to do anything but spoil his little girl rotten.

"I guess that's true." He spoke around the lump in his throat. "So you want me to persuade her?"

"No. Not in any way. I am asking you to support her while she comes to her own decision. The facts are there. The offer is there. It seems to me that you have nothing to lose by accepting, but if your world and mine are far apart, hers and mine are infinitely further. What she might perceive as losing would be the integrity of her thought – and that, to one of her people, would be a heavy loss indeed."

"And your people wouldn't mind?"

A rather wry smile touched her mouth. "I will not say they like it. But they will accept it. They too have been confronted by the obvious." _The blindingly obvious, _she could have said. "I will leave you now. I have duties to attend to, and the Healers wish to speak with me regarding your captain."

"How is he?" The concern for Jon had, of course, been weighing on his mind and he felt slightly guilty for not asking before, but what with one thing and another he'd been a bit preoccupied.

"Still suffering. I am not afraid for him physically, as I am for Hoshi. Grenyal and the others can take care of that. But he is terribly wounded at his heart, and it will take time to restore him; it is fortunate indeed that I touched minds with him as I did, so that I can understand where the damage was done. I told you that his cure will not be easy. But he is a strong man and a brave one, and we have begun the rebuilding."

"Please. Tell 'em – tell anyone who's workin' with ya – tell 'em how grateful I am."

"They do not do it to earn your gratitude," she said gently. "They do it because they are Healers, in the same way that I govern Skairesse because it is my duty and my joy to do so – and heal the broken, too, where that is possible. But I will certainly tell them of your thanks."

She left him then, padding away with that loose, easy grace and disappearing among the buildings. He sat on beside the pond, staring at nothing, while the evening breeze stirred the weeping branches of the tree beside him and the stars began pricking out in their thousands in the darkening sky.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

_"I am afraid for her. It is not going well."_

The urgent message from Grenyal made Shiránnor open her eyes, but she had to shut them again quickly as the sweat running from her forehead stung them.

They had fought, fought ever since the first induced pangs began, but the small body under their hands was already weakened by grief. There had been times when she thought that only the strength of the fighting spirit inside it was keeping the two together, but that spirit was already looking elsewhere; maybe only mother love was holding it back, that incalculable force that compels every creature that gives birth to sacrifice everything so their young will survive.

Grenyal and T'Pol were working, doing all they could to support and encourage a young woman who could only be aware of them at the uttermost limits of her consciousness. The imperatives of labour had taken over, and now whatever remained of Hoshi's world would have narrowed down to the sheer physical effort of giving birth. Several other Skaira were in the cave with them, some lending their considerable mental power to the struggle to keep Hoshi safe, others – Grenyal's infirmary assistants – ready to act as the situation should require. Even Jerhazy was there in the capacity of Duty Priestess, keeping vigil so that nothing that was taking place should interrupt the proper business of the Shrine

"He is too close – too close!" the First Priestess groaned aloud. She dashed a hand across her eyes to clear them and stared desperately at the straining woman in front of them. She had tried everything, and it had not worked. She could feel the connection, that bright and deadly thread, thrumming between the two of them. Neither of them could release it. She could break it by force, but that would have consequences. What these might be was beyond her capacity to predict.

But – the realization slid into her mind – she hadn't tried absolutely _everything._

She jerked up and stared wildly at the Sacred Image. The thought that had come into her head went against everything she had been taught about the Traditions. It flew in the face of everything Skairesse held dear. Never, ever, had a male set foot in the Shrine and lived to tell of what he had seen. Fahinth herself had ordained it.

But if he saw nothing?

She pressed bloody hands to her face and stifled a whimper. _Mother, guide me!_

There was no reply.

_If I do wrong, I shall answer for it. I can do no other._

She rose to her paws, pressing her hand briefly to Grenyal's shoulder. "A moment only."

"We may not have many more of them. Be swift."

She hurried up the passage. Half way along it, on the way to the outer world, was the Cave of the Waterfall. It had taken all her authority to allow Trip to come thus far. Normally the only male allowed to enter it would be the Emperor, during the Feast of Fifty Years, and even he only briefly, that he should witness the Terror.

Candlelight bloomed on her vision. She emerged into the cave almost at the run, and the man seated beside the waterfall raised his head.

He had a mental connection to his wife; he knew that the situation was desperate. His face was pale, haggard. "We're losin' her, aren't we?"

"It will come to that, if nothing changes." She crossed to him and took his hands. "There is one thing more that we can try."

"Anythin'. Just tell me."

She took a deep breath. "You must risk your life to do this. The only way I can save you is if you keep your eyes closed – that you do not open them for a single instant once you pass that doorway, no matter what the provocation. Afterwards, they will search your mind; they have that right, and I cannot forbid it. If they find one memory, they will kill you. And they will kill me too, for having ordered it."

He came to his feet like a released spring. "Tell me what I have to do."

"I will have to take you to him." She swallowed. "It is dangerous. I cannot explain how dangerous it is, even for me. I would not attempt it anywhere but there, where the power of Skairesse is at its very greatest. And when we are there with him – only during that time – can you open your eyes."

"You're sayin' you can take me – to _Malcolm?"_

"Yes. Do not be afraid; he looks just as he always did. He will know you. And he will listen to you."

He shut his eyes briefly, then opened them and nodded. He was afraid, but his trust in her made her want to weep. And his Other, too, was trusting her, risking everything. _Truly, the Gods of these people created marvels!_

"Give me your hand. And remember, until I tell you, keep your eyes closed. I will lead you safely. No matter what you hear, do not look!"

He hesitated for an instant. "Just to be on the safe side, couldn't you blindfold me?"

She shook her head. "It would not be sufficient. The obedience must be voluntary, not imposed. And there would always be the risk of – accidents." The spectre of a hand, slipping – supposedly by accident – was as clear in her mind as though she could see it. "Men are not permitted where I am to take you. The very first of all First Priestesses said it: _No man shall see this and live. _Neither I nor anyone else can change that decree. The only way you can escape that fate is if you see nothing. Jerhazy is one of those who resist all change, resist everything they neither understand nor agree with. She will not want you to circumvent that decree. She will not wish you to be a man who enters and comes out alive, perhaps because in her eyes it is my secret desire that _every_ man might be free to do so. And that would be the gravest blasphemy possible." She drew another, even deeper breath. "Are you still ready and willing to continue?"

* * *

Her hand holding his was warm and steady, the pressure of her fingers carefully controlled. He shut his eyes as they reached the doorway; there was no light down the tunnel anyway, at least not yet, but he was taking no chances.

The floor underfoot was perfectly level, descending at a steady, gentle gradient. The air still and cool. From the echoes he thought that the passageway wasn't much higher than his head. It was difficult not to reach out and brush his free hand along the sides to help orient himself. Shiránnor walked almost silently beside him but he could smell the warm, slightly resinous perfume from her hair and fur.

Light warmed his eyelids suddenly.

"We are there. Step down just a very little."

It was only a small step, a couple of centimeters. He heard a hiss of indrawn breath, and then, unmistakably, growls. More than one, filled with outrage and menace.

"Even this, you do for them? Even _this?"_ The voice was hard with shock and loathing.

"I call to your mind the exact words of First Priestess Fahinth, Jerhazy. 'This which the Goddess has revealed to me, no man _shall see_ and live.' And behold, his eyes are closed. And they will remain so."

He kept still and silent with an effort. He could hear Hoshi's moaning breaths a little distance away. T'Pol would be with her. He felt the brush of his aduna's mind, no more than that; the very brevity of the contact told him that she was controlling herself with all her strength so as not to distract him.

The air moved a little. Breathing on his cheek told him that someone had come close and was staring at him with savage concentration.

"That will be verified afterwards," the voice snarled almost in his ear.

"That is your right as Duty Priestess. And if you find him guilty I offer my own life also in payment for the offence."

The growls died away.

In the tense silence she led him forward, steering him lightly. "Kneel, now. Hoshi is here."

He knelt carefully, anxious not to put his hands anywhere they might touch Hoshi and add to her suffering. He was beside T'Pol. Under the stench of sweat and blood he could smell the familiar spice of her skin, feel the slight warmth of her body. Two fingers brushed the top of his free left hand ever so lightly, offering him her support.

"We will go to him now," said Shiránnor very quietly. "It will not hurt you, you will feel nothing. What you see when you open your eyes may not be what he sees, however, so do not speak of it to him. What you must do is to persuade him to let go. If he consents, I can help him. But he must consent."

Trip tried to moisten his mouth, which was perfectly dry. "I'll give it my best shot."

"That is all anyone can ever ask of you."

He waited, his pulse jumping. Might be an idea to take a deep breath, just in case –

The smell almost made him open his eyes wide in sheer surprise. Cool sea air filled his lungs. He inhaled hugely, delighted by its familiarity. The purity of it told him that it was very early morning, before the sun got up and began baking the long Florida beaches.

"Open your eyes."

For a moment he couldn't quite find the nerve. Then, _hell, he's only dead. I've seen him when the whole weapons system went down and he was madder'n a wet hen._

She'd been right. Malcolm was still Malcolm, sitting on the sand in his Starfleet uniform, hunched up small and defensive, and wearing exactly the sort of worried scowl he'd worn when the weapons diagnostics wouldn't come right. Except that now it was ten times as fearsome.

"Bloody hell, this is all I need!"

"Believe me, buddy, it's not exactly what _I_ need either! Even apart from the fact that it's damned impossible anyway!" Awe fell off him. He stepped forward, hands on hips, the identical scowl on his face. "Now, what the hell are you playin' at?"

"I don't believe that what I'm doing exactly falls under the description of 'playing', Commandah." The British accent was still just as annoying.

Trip looked around. The beach wasn't Florida; it wasn't anywhere he could possibly have described. The stars were unimaginable. Low on the horizon was a suggestion of the dawn, singing to him with words that would have broken his heart if he'd let himself listen to them.

He dragged his gaze back to Malcolm, and to the boat that rocked quietly at the edge of the water.

"I'm here to help ya, Malcolm," he said more mildly. "Seems to me you've gotten yourself into somethin' you can't get out of."

"Believe you me, that may – " he paused, and a spasm of awful pain passed across his face – "be taken care of shortly."

"Yeah, you're probably right. But it won't be taken care of the way it oughtta be. You know that."

A furious grey glance flicked at him. Reed hunched himself more tightly. "She needs me."

"Malcolm. She needs to let you go. 'Cept that she doesn't know that yet, so you've got to tell her."

The smaller man uncoiled suddenly and jumped to his feet with startling speed. "Who the hell are you to tell me what I have to inflict on my wife?" he hissed.

"Who am I?" Trip faced him calmly. "I guess both of us know who I am. You sure told Shiránnor plain enough when she asked."

The words ricocheted silently between them in the empty, starlit space. _'HE'S MY BLOODY FRIEND!'_

"Trip. I can't do it to her … I can't."

"You have to. 'Cause you love her. And you love your little girl, just like I loved Elizabeth. But you've got the chance to save her, to save both of them. Let Shiránnor help you. Malcolm. You can do this. Please." He put out his hands without a moment's thought and clasped the rigid shoulders for a moment before pulling him into a bone crushing hug, which was instantly returned.

_"Say goodbye."_

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

The doors stood open throughout the house. Now that summer had finally arrived, they had welcomed it with open arms. Rays of sunshine striped the polished flags of the kitchen and warmed the back of the little white cat dozing on the doorstep; jars of wild flowers stood on every windowsill. A robin had nested in the tool shed, and her mate's strident song rang protectively around the garden every morning, warning off all rivals. Malcolm had gone into town and hired a lawn mower to save disturbing the nesting bird. He'd said he felt empathic.

He'd brought her here after their marriage, insisting on carrying her over the threshold. She'd never even seen the place before, but she fell in love with it: the big, rambling old farmhouse nestling in a Cornish valley, with a few acres of rich land that a local farmer rented and used. They didn't spend all of their time here; his work for Starfleet meant frequent visits to San Francisco, where they rented an apartment, but this was _home. _ He'd had it redecorated and subtly refurbished to modern standards of comfort, but the ageless strength and beauty of the place remained.

They'd come home only that afternoon, tired from a long journey. Their suitcases still stood in the hall, waiting to be emptied, but they could wait a little longer. The big bath had beckoned more wooingly than tiresome duty, and the housekeeper had left a bottle of wine to chill in the fridge.

"Tell me about your grandmother, love." Hoshi relaxed into the strong arms cradling her from behind. He had made love to her slowly, carefully, mindful of her pregnancy. Now they were both sated and quiet, and there was the soft afterglow of togetherness. The scented steam drifted out of the window, to be replaced by eddies of fresh cool air scented with mown grass instead. "The one who left you this house."

He laughed gently, reaching out for the wine glass perched on the ledge at the back of the bath. "You mean Great-Grandmother Howard. The terror of the family."

"I found her photograph in an old album the other day when I was exploring the attic. I think you look a lot like her. How she must have looked when she was young, I mean," she amended hastily, giggling, as he choked on his Chablis at the suggestion that he resembled a tyrant who'd been over ninety years of age when that picture was taken.

"You saved yourself just in time," he growled with mock menace over her shoulder. "Or I should have to think of a suitable punishment." She could tell by his voice beside her ear how his face had taken on a speculative expression, and his left hand slid slowly down her flank. "Something _slow_ and _lin-ger-ing_."

"Oh look, now you've frightened the baby!" she cried with equally feigned indignation, as her swollen abdominal wall displayed a series of lively movements so strong that they sent small ripples through the bubble-strewn bathwater.

"Well, that's what tyrants are supposed to do, aren't they?" Giving the absolute lie to his words, he set down his glass again so that both of his hands could come to rest with extraordinary tenderness on the bare wet skin, caressing the child inside. "Go to sleep, Princess. Daddy's here."

"We could call her after your great-grandmother," she suggested, putting her hands over his.

"God forbid. One Agnes in my life was enough. Just the mention of her scared the living daylights out of me."

"_Really?_"

"Yes. Really. I only saw her once. When I was about six or seven, but I remember it as though it were yesterday." He removed one hand in order to retrieve his wine, and sipped at it reflectively. "I owe most of what I know of her to my Aunt Sherrie, who's always been the family gossip, and evidently thought I ought to know the story. She was my mother's grandmother, and she had almost the whole family whipped into terrified submission. They didn't tell her about mum's marriage till it was over and done with; I think they honestly thought if she was invited she'd have done her level best to put a stop to it. She found out Mum had just been on a date with Dad, and you know what she said?" A soundless laugh. "'Don't know the man but he comes from the wrong stable. Bad blood in it. That's all I need to know.' She didn't want him in the family at any price. And knowing her if she'd found out about it in time she probably _would _have stopped it somehow. She was a right old terror."

"So why did your family come to visit?" she asked curiously.

"Strangely enough, she wanted to see me. She issued what was in effect a royal command. I think Dad would have preferred not to obey, but she had a trump card in her hand, of course." A cynical note entered his voice. "This house. Very valuable. He had plans for it."

"So they brought you to see her."

"Indeed. And she was sitting in state in the lounge, waiting for the newest member of the family to be presented. Like a bloody Empress, she was. I'd had so many warnings drummed into me that I'd got to be on my best behaviour, it was a miracle I didn't wet myself."

"Oh, Malcolm, you didn't!"

"No, but it was a close call. Believe you me, I got out of there as fast as I could. I'd got pretty good at covert manoeuvres even at that age. I made my escape in short order as soon as I thought nobody was looking." His reminiscing tone took on a grin. "I bolted out of the nearest door I could find. As luck would have it, it was the back door. It took me to the orchard at the back of the house, and that was it. I was in love."

"With an _orchard?_"

"Sounds mad, doesn't it? But it was so … wild. Free. The long grass, and the windfall apples just lying in it. And the stream at the bottom of it. A real honest-to-God stream, the sort you could find frogs and newts and things in. Not a trammelled little trickle of water running to order down a channel from a fountain to a fishpond and being pumped back up again. I'd never seen anything like it." He was silent for a while.

"So what happened?" his wife prompted, reaching for her own glass, which in deference to her pregnancy contained only apple juice.

"Great-Grandmother found me there. Down by the stream. With the tips of my shoes muddy because I'd been so fascinated I'd got careless." The complexity of his tone now made her tighten the fingers of her other hand around his where it still rested on her stomach. "I just looked up and there she was. I had no idea how long she'd been there. She was looking at my shoes, and I knew I'd done something terrible, in spite of all the warnings.

"Then she spoke. 'The soil always knows. You belong here, don't you, young man?'" He'd never lost his wonderful English accent, but to her delight his voice had now acquired a chiselled, slightly nasal precision that belonged to a vanished generation.

"I didn't know what to say. I didn't have a clue what she was on about. But I knew she was right. So I said 'Yes.'

"And she just nodded. 'Your mother and father have gone down to the village for a meal,' she said. 'You're staying with me.' So I did. All afternoon. We had lunch together. Crumpets and scones," he said, laughing a little. "And she took me into the library and showed me some of the books. Story books. Wonderful stories, with pictures. Things Dad would never have allowed in the house – about King Arthur and the Round Table, and about dragons and knights and legends. Then she took me to the window and pointed out down the valley." A long pause. "I don't know if you've ever seen it with exactly that light on it. It needs the sun at the right angle, at the right season. But you know away in the distance, you can see the sea? And that day, the way the cloud was lying on the horizon it looked exactly as if there was a country there, beyond it, shining…. Pure magic, it was, to me. And she knew I could see it.

"'That was what this house was named after, young man,' she told me. 'Lyonesse. The Land of the West. Your father would never have seen it, no matter how long he looked.'" He was silent again for a moment. "Mum and Dad came back about half an hour after that. Needless to say, the atmosphere wasn't of the sweetest. She could have asked us to stay the night, but it was never suggested; whether she wouldn't have us or Dad wouldn't have agreed to stay anyway, I don't know. Anyway we left just before dark; I think we stayed in a hotel nearby because it was too far to drive home. And from listening to the conversation as we drove away, I knew we wouldn't be going back."

"And you never did?" asked Hoshi, wondering.

"No, never. Not even for the funeral. And I didn't find out for years that she'd actually left the house to me – tied up in such a way that Dad couldn't even set foot in it." His chest shook with now slightly bitter laughter. "I've often wished I'd been privileged to be there when the will was read out. The whole bloody family was after that house, and she left it to me."

"So how did you find out? Did your parents tell you?"

"Oh, no. I have this suspicion Dad actually hoped I never would find out. I got a letter from a solicitor on my twenty-first birthday. One day I was a hard-up student working for my advanced exams and wondering how the hell I was going to get the money to travel to San Francisco, even if my application was accepted, and the next I was a property owner in my own right." A pause. "There was a package as well. A little silver box, very old; you'll find it on the mantelpiece in the lounge now. I opened it and it was full of earth. There was a note in the packaging. '_As long as you have some of this with you, you are never away from your home.' _I put a tiny bit of it in a sealed packet and took it with me when I joined the ship. I used to carry it in one of my utility pockets. Stupid, I know." He sighed. "She didn't have a lot of money in the bank, but I got that as well, such as it was. It paid for my flight to America, and the rest, as they say, is history."

"And if you hadn't had it, I'd never have met you." She squeezed his hand. "So it's all down to terrible Great-Grandmother Howard."

"True. It all sprang from that. Starfleet, _Enterprise_, you… and our little princess here."

"You know, because of that I think we really ought to name her Agnes. Agnes Sato-Reed."

"Heaven forbid." He kissed her ear. "She might grow up to be terrifying as well."

"I thought you were pretty terrifying when I met you first. You had such a scowl."

"That wasn't a scowl. It was my professional expression."

"Well at least I know now where you got it from. Great-Grandmother Howard."

"You know, if you keep making these accusations I really will have to reconsider that threat I made earlier."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

She closed her eyes, relaxing into his slow caresses.

Somewhere there was the thin sound of a newborn baby wailing.

His hands paused. He was obviously listening intently.

"You're dead, aren't you?" she said presently.

"Yes." His voice was very soft.

"Then we're not here, are we?"

"No."

She wanted to turn around, to see him face to face, but she knew it wasn't going to happen. "Will I see you again?" she asked childishly.

"Not for a while."

"Then I don't want to go back."

"Listen." He pulled gently at her hand, and she felt his mouth come to rest softly against her fingers. "Agnes needs you."

"But I need you too."

"You're strong enough to cope. Strong enough to face anything. That's what I admired about you first, love. You were scared, but you coped. You could have turned tail and run, but you stayed with us and grew into the woman I love." He kissed her hand again. It was impossibly unfair.

"Why did you leave?" she cried.

"I didn't have any choice, love," he said ruefully. "Well, no, I did. I could stay with you and the ship and die, or I could do my job and protect you. To me, that _was _no choice. Old habits die hard."

"And the good die young." She was shaking.

"No wonder you thought I looked ninety."

"Malcolm Reed, you are…"

"Handsome? Irresistible? Incredibly sexy?" he suggested.

"All three, you bastard." Tears and laughter. "I've got to go to her."

"Take her to Lyonesse. It's yours now. And hers. It's a great place to grow up in, if that's what you decide you want for her. And the books are still there – all of them; I hoped I'd read them to her one day, but I'm afraid you'll just have to do it instead." A smile lurked in his voice. "With your linguistic skills, you'll do it better than I'd ever have done anyway. And with any luck she'll love them like I did."

"But you won't be there."

"I'll be keeping an eye on you." He stroked her hair. "Me and Great-Grandmother Howard."

"Oh, great. A haunted house. How could I resist?"

"At least if someone creeps up behind you at dead of night and grabs your bum, you'll know who it is."

"Just you up to your old tricks, eh?"

"Well it won't be Great-Grandfather Howard, he wouldn't dare. Anyway, it's your fault. You shouldn't have such a gorgeous bum. You'll never know how often I ogled it on the ship."

"I took a few peeks at yours, mister. Though Trip's was pretty nice too," she added.

"No use. T'Pol had her dibs on that from the start."

"I know. That's why I had to settle for what I could get."

"At least you got the husband with the superior weapon capability."

"Can't argue with you there." The warmth of the bath was incredibly soothing. Sleep was stealing over her, and the baby had stopped crying. When she listened carefully, she could hear the soft, contented gurgling of an infant on the edge of sleep.

"Just hold me a little while longer, Malcolm," she entreated, turning her head a little sideways against the firm pillow of his chest.

"Always, love." His strong arms were cradling her, supporting her, lending her his strength. As he had from their earliest days on _Enterprise._

"Love you, always…" She linked fingers with him drowsily.

"Always plus one." His voice was hardly more than a whisper in her ear, as it had been on so many nights when she'd fallen asleep in his arms. "Goodnight, love."

Hoshi Sato-Reed drifted away into slumber, utterly secure.

_"And goodbye, till we meet again."_

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

Trip came reeling back into himself to the sounds and sensations of a flurry of violent activity all around him. Too many people seemed to be shoving him, and he lost his balance and toppled forward with a small cry of dismay. He remembered to keep his eyes squeezed tightly shut, but he instinctively threw out his hands to steady himself. One brushed against what felt like a knee. The other...

Something tiny and living moved under his hand. A minute hand closed around his thumb.

He froze. His heart turned over.

The stupidest things go through your head sometimes. He'd idly dipped his hands into the waterfall a few times during the endless hours of waiting, breaking the sheets into spray that glittered in the candlelight like a rain of Kodalan diamonds. Did that count as making sure they were clean?

_Elizabeth._ His little girl. His beautiful little girl, who'd never had the chance to grow up, who'd gone away taking a piece of his heart with her.

He lifted the baby with infinite care, hearing and not hearing the sounds of people doing the necessary things in the background. He held her so they could cut the umbilical cord, the tininess of her no mystery to the hands that had cradled Elizabeth. He could feel T'Pol's head against his shoulder, her arms around him, and between them the bond was fully open, raw with memories and grief. The tears ran down his face.

They needed to give Hoshi something to drink. A voice he identified as Grenyal's was calling her softly, and she answered it just like she'd been asleep for a long time and was finally waking up.

"Agnes?" Her voice was slurred, but anxiety was threaded into it.

"Your cub is well and whole. You shall hold her in just a moment, but first you must drink this. You have been away for long and long, and you must get well again for her."

_Agnes._ God damn, that just had to be Malcolm's idea. Trip couldn't decide whether he was laughing or sobbing.

"Give her to me!" Even when she must be as weak as a kitten, Hoshi was still feisty. Her tone suggested that now she'd downed the drink, someone had better comply or there'd be trouble. Big trouble.

T'Pol took the baby from him, handling her like she was made of crystal. The movement of her thigh against his told him she was leaning. Assorted soft sighs all around revealed that even the Skaira thought the sight of a mother holding her newborn for the first time was pretty wonderful.

"Hello, little Agnes." The murmur was soft, private, contained swallowed tears. "Aren't you daddy's beautiful little girl? Agnes Elizabeth Sato-Reed."

Oh God, he had to get out of here. Get somewhere private so he could come apart in peace.

The voice on his left side was low and raw with menace. "Jerhazy, if you touch him now I will kill you." She was lifting him up and T'Pol came with him as though the two of them were a single entity. Perhaps both of them were blind as she gently steered them through the doorway and up through the darkness of the tunnel.

Candlelight came back on to his eyelids. The pattering of falling water was close to him. Firm, no-nonsense hands were stripping his clothes off, and beside him his wife was shedding hers.

There was a broad slab of stone directly under the fall, pitted by the ceaseless uneven blows of the ragged sheet from above. His tentatively probing foot found the edge of it, and discovered in the same moment that the stream was no warmer than any other underground spring he'd ever encountered.

He stepped forward quickly before he could think better of it.

The cold of the water on his sweat-lathered body was atrocious. He sucked in a great gasp of air with the shock of it, turning automatically to gather T'Pol into his arms and lend her some of his warmth, protecting her with his shoulders from the worst of the icy battering from above.

Her mouth came up to his in desperation.

Fire flamed where there had been ice.

Neither of them noticed that Shiránnor had left.

Nothing mattered now but each other.

* * *

The examination by Jerhazy was a formality.

It wasn't pleasant, but he endured it in silence, knowing that he had nothing to hide. He shut his eyes again so he wouldn't see the narrow, hostile face so close to his; it was bad enough to have all that anger prowling through his mind in search of something she already all but knew she wasn't going to find.

He was thankful beyond words he'd had all this time of bonding with T'Pol. He'd been able to learn how to deal with having someone else in his head. His wife was sitting close beside him, holding his hands, watching the operation narrowly; he could feel her wariness.

_No!_ The predatory thoughts had touched an open wound among the memories and he threw up the shields with more violence than he'd known he was capable of. _She's none of your goddamn business!_

Jerhazy growled. He pathed it more than heard it; the sound itself was barely audible.

Shiránnor was couched on his other side. She hissed viciously and lifted one forepaw as though holding it ready to slap down on the floor. Every claw on it was bare. _Stay within your bounds! _

Eventually, however, even as determined as she was to find some evidence of guilt, Jerhazy had no choice but to give up.

"Nothing," she growled, stepping back. "He saw nothing."

"Then I guess I'm free to leave." He stood up and faced her.

Her ears flattened. He wasn't sure whether it was because she wanted to kill him anyway, just for having been there at all, or because Shiránnor had risen too.

"As Duty Priestess, it is your province to answer." The words sounded as if they came from the bottom of the First's stomach. "Does he leave or does he not? And if not, on what grounds do you detain him?"

Jerhazy backed up a little further. It was plain how much of an effort it took for her to attain a subservient posture. Her eyes were anything but subservient before she lowered them.

"He may leave," she rumbled.

The light was draining out of the sky as they emerged on to the top of the great ceremonial Way that had been carved up into the mountain to reach the shrine. According to his chronometer they'd been down there for just under twenty hours and eaten nothing. Trip, who had a good appetite at the best of times, found that he was as famished as a starving timber wolf.

"Will Hoshi be coming too?" he asked.

"Grenyal will keep her there until she has eaten and slept, and regained a little of her strength. If all is well you will see her tomorrow, or the day after at latest."

"Hey, are you okay?" As he glanced sideways at her in the better light he saw that she was gray with exhaustion. Her voice was almost slurring with it.

"I am – a little tired," she admitted with a faint smile. "You did well – both of you."

"I was unfortunately able to do virtually nothing to assist." T'Pol was never comfortable with borrowed glory.

"You were where you were needed. You did what needed to be done, and did it well," said the Skair simply. "What more can any of us do?"

They began walking down the Way, Shiránnor moving with something less than her usual feline grace. Most of the other Skaira who had attended the birth brought up the rear, talking in low tones. They seemed relaxed enough, but through the bond Trip felt his wife's unease.

_We have caused serious conflict_, she sent. _This is not what we are supposed to do._

He sighed. He was too tired to argue, and besides, he had a guilty feeling on that score himself. _Maybe we shouldn't have come at all._

_It might have been better for Shiránnor if we had not._

_Aduna, you're probably right, but I'm too tired right now to think about it. _The events of the past twenty hours had worn him out completely. All he wanted right now was a solid meal and a very long sleep. _By the way, did I mention you were wonderful?_

_I believe you did say something of the kind._

_I hope Shran hasn't eaten all the supper._

_If it was alcoholic I would say you had cause for concern. As that circumstance is unlikely, I would imagine he has not._

Trip chuckled tiredly and reached for her hand.

_Sure hope I don't fall asleep with my face in the soup._

_If you do, I promise to pull you out._

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

Full dark had fallen by the time they returned to the Temple Complex – as close to full darkness as a cloudless night ever came on Kerriel, lit as it was by so many stars of such extraordinary beauty and brilliance.

The visitors had been told that it was comparatively rare for the place to show many lights at night – Skaira being nocturnal by preference, their eyesight was perfectly well adapted to relative darkness and they would generally only light lamps for work that required fine detail of vision. T'Pol was the first to notice that the Infirmary, however, now stood out among the other buildings by being illuminated. Light shone out of all of the windows. She wondered why; oil lamps had been provided for their rooms the night before, but the main block had been deserted and dark.

A solitary figure detached itself from the squat shape of the shuttle and strolled across the lawn to meet them. Starlight gleamed on the thatch of white hair. "I felt more comfortable bedding down aboard. We've had visitors arrive since you left. I thought they found me a little off-putting, so it seemed easier for me to leave than them." His tone was deliberately casual, but his antennae seemed to suggest he wasn't quite as unperturbed as he was trying to appear. "Did the birth go okay?"

Shiránnor sighed a little. "Yes. It was not easy, but it is done. The visitors you met have arrived for the Tenth Hour Ceremony. They will be here for some days, and the only place we have that can accommodate that many people at once is the infirmary. We will find you somewhere else to stay."

"Actually, I was thinking I might do a little exploring. There doesn't seem to be much for me to do around here. Would there be any problem with that?"

The Skair shook her head. "If you encountered others they might well have something of a problem with it! Though you should not, not up on the ice lands. But the weather will be closing in fast up there, now winter is on the way. I counsel you to have a care."

He looked so taken aback by her having such detailed knowledge of his plans that Trip grinned too. "Yeah, it's a bit unnervin'. We did warn ya."

"I'll take more notice next time. And don't worry, I'll be careful. Ice and I are old friends." He nodded to her, and then glanced back at the Starfleet officers. "You have your communicators? Just call me when you need me." He walked back to the shuttle, and they retreated to a respectful distance as he closed the door. Moments later the engine fired, and after a small struggle to detach itself from whatever earth still adhered to it after its unceremonious arrival the craft lifted free and rose into the air. Tonight the treacherous winds had fallen quiet, and it veered up without effort into the night sky, heading north.

"We shall eat together in my house," said Shiránnor. "I shall give orders for your belongings to be brought over from the guest room; there is another room next to mine that you may use if it is comfortable enough for you. It would not be suitable for you to stay in the infirmary now that there are others in the building."

"We appear to be causing considerable disruption to your domestic arrangements," remarked T'Pol, feeling that some apology was in order. And it wasn't just the guest accommodation that was being disrupted; it was all too easy to perceive that a titanic power struggle was in progress, which their problems had exacerbated. Nevertheless, she had a strong suspicion that Shiránnor would not want to discuss that. "We are sorry if we have arrived at an inopportune time."

"You came when you needed to. And the time may be more opportune than you realize."

For some reason, Trip reacted to that statement. She felt a small jolt through the bond, almost like panic. _What is wrong? _she sent.

_It's – can we talk about it later? _He was confused and reluctant. Hunger and tiredness were clouding his thought processes, but that wasn't all that was wrong. She could tell that he was upset, but he'd been on edge since the previous day and she'd assumed it was worry about Hoshi as well as the Captain. _Please, don't push this, _he pathed. _I promise, we'll talk about it. But not now._

_If it is something that causes you pain, I need to know._

_An' you will. Tonight. Shiránnor has somethin' she wants to talk to us about. Can we leave it at that for now?_

She looked hard at him. The face she found so handsome was blank with exhaustion, but the blue eyes looked back at her levelly.

_As you wish, Adun._

As First Priestess, Shiránnor occupied a house that in size was second only to the Meeting Hall. Most of the space inside it, however, was taken up by a large room where her council usually assembled, a library and a chapel. Her own quarters comprised a modest lounge, her own bedroom, a spare bedroom and an Audience Chamber. None of these were luxuriously fitted out, except that the floors were covered with beautifully cured hides instead of carpets. In view of the fact that the owner of the house was an accomplished predator, like her juniors, it was not hard to imagine where these had come from.

Her steward Vetherahi had been waiting for her when they arrived, and had taken her low-voiced orders and slipped away to see them carried out. Presumably the change of living quarters was not unexpected, for lights had been set here too; small oil lamps perched wherever a convenient space offered. But of course, they weren't the only guests.

While they were waiting for supper to arrive, she took them to see Jon. He was in the spare bedroom. Skaira plainly didn't go in for fancy beds; even hers was no more than a low, broad pallet covered with greenstuff under a single plain throw that had seen good service. The one Jon was occupying was similarly made, but more effort had been put into covering the greenery, and a finely woven blanket had been placed carefully over him. A Skair with chestnut-colored fur and hair was couched beside it, gently plucking notes from some kind of harp she held between her forelegs. She looked up as they entered; she was about the same age as Shiránnor, and had a wise, gentle face despite the sharp canine teeth whose points showed as she spoke.

"I think the music has helped him. He listened to it this afternoon. He did not speak, but he listened."

"I had hoped that the First Among Singers would help his cause. Jathior, it is good to see you. I cannot say how good it is. And I thank you for coming here, and for your care of him." The two Skaira embraced, Shiránnor bending to save the other having to rise to do so. They did not kiss, but rubbed their cheekbones together affectionately.

"You had other cares. Are both mother and cub well?"

"Yes, thank the Goddess. It was hard, but we succeeded. Thanks in great part to this my friend here." She introduced Trip. "And his wife T'Pol."

The Singer stared at them both with interest. "It is my honour to meet with you; Shirah'shih has spoken of you often. My only sorrow is that you return to us in an evil case, but at least one outcome has been happy. And for the other, we have every hope."

The two officers stepped forward to the bed and hunkered down beside it. The captain was lying still, but his color had improved. Some of the ghastly hollow look had gone from around his eyes too.

If he'd been asleep, it must have been shallow at best. The hazel eyes opened slowly, and a faint, hesitant smile appeared. "Trip. It's ... it's good to see you." Voice and smile were each a shadow of their old selves, but the latter at least was a thing that hadn't made an appearance since Cheron, though it hardly softened the lines of bitterness and grief that the Expanse and the war had gouged into his face. His eyes shifted. "T'Pol. Thought you'd have ... had more sense."

"I would have thought so myself, Captain." Best, on all counts, to preserve her usual dry front. "But it would appear that even Vulcans can occasionally wander from the path of logic."

"If there's a side road going, Trip'll drag you up it." The crinkles at the corners of his eyes appeared, but his brief flare of energy was ebbing. "Hoshi ... has she had the baby yet?"

"Approximately two hours ago. They are both well." She swallowed something in her throat. "A beautiful baby girl. They have called her Agnes Elizabeth Sato-Reed."

Archer closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly. "Agnes. Oh, Malcolm."

"Yeah." Trip was grinning too, albeit lopsidedly. "Trust him. Nothin' _ord'nary._"

"I guess ... he had his reasons." A brief flash of hazel, before the eyes closed again. "Sure picked a pretty second name, though."

"Sure did." Her husband patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Go back to sleep, Jon."

Jathior smiled at them. "He already has," she said softly. "You are tired and hungry. Go and eat and rest. I will look after him."

The gentle notes of the harp followed them out of the room.

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

Vetherahi had worked swiftly. The modest table the lounge boasted had been moved to allow a low divan to be pulled into position opposite the one already there; Skaira, naturally, did not use chairs. A couple of younger individuals were busy carrying in plates, while others ferried the cushions from the beds in the guest house and heaped them on the floor.

"Will this be comfortable enough for you?" asked Shiránnor. "I am sorry I have nothing more suitable to offer you. I would give you mine, but I have not had time to order it made up fresh for guests."

"It'll be just fine." To judge by Trip's drooping eyelids he wouldn't have taken much persuasion to curl up in the middle of the heap and fall asleep there and then, but it was undoubtedly best that he eat first.

Supper was a simple affair: slices of cooked meats, cheese, raw vegetables of several kinds, and hunks of what proved to be something akin to cake, eaten with wafer-thin slices of fruit laid on top. Trip and Shiránnor ate ravenously; T'Pol was less hungry, and nibbled at the vegetables and fruit. She had been looking forward to food, having gone without for just as long as the others had, but the nagging anxiety about what this mysterious thing was that the First Priestess wished to discuss with her and her husband had taken the edge off her appetite.

It took little imagination to foresee that a full meal on top of an exhausting day would leave her adun far more interested in sleep than conversation. Consequently she forestalled this development by saying levelly, as soon as the first edge of their appetite had been smoothed away: "I believe that there is something of importance that needs to be discussed between us."

Shiránnor picked up a piece of cheese with her fingers and ate it with surprisingly small, delicate bites. "That is true. I would have preferred to wait until tomorrow before broaching it, but that will not be possible." She ate another piece, with the abstracted air of one choosing her words carefully, and then she sat up straight and pushed back her hair before fixing T'Pol with her usual wide, fearless stare. "I believe that you and Trip have encountered difficulty in having a child."

Whatever the Vulcan had expected, it hadn't been this. She recoiled almost physically. Trip's hand came out and closed gently around her wrist in support, but his shields were up; she couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"It is true," she answered eventually. "But our ship's doctor is working to try to find a way to create a viable fetus."

"But you have little faith that he will succeed." The Skair's voice was very gentle, but it did not flinch from uttering the fact.

T'Pol swallowed. "There is a difference between 'little' and 'none.' " Newborn Agnes had been smaller than Elizabeth, who'd been some weeks old when her existence burst upon their world and shattered its tranquility; there had been a sharp contrast between a placid, well-presented baby in an incubator and the wet, vernix- and blood-covered, squalling infant that had made its arrival after so many hours of exhausting labor. But the look of rapture that had spilled across Hoshi's face as the baby was finally placed in her arms had once again ripped open a wound that had never fully healed.

She had hoped that if she and Trip managed to have another child, it would at least go some way towards helping them to cope with Elizabeth's loss. She was fully aware of the huge reserves of love that the engineer had to offer, and that given the chance he would be an exemplary parent. The younger members of his own extended family adored him without exception. After Phlox's latest admission, however, even hope had become hard to hang on to.

"I wish to make you an offer that you may find it difficult – perhaps impossible – to accept." Shiránnor was speaking again, her voice very low and even. "On this world, at the tenth hour of the tenth day of the tenth month, we hold a ceremony that for us is of the greatest significance. During it, ten couples who have found themselves childless are assisted to conceive. I am offering you the chance to participate in that ceremony."

Now she did recoil – physically. "No." She didn't even have to think about her response. It came out of her core, the place where primitive superstitions were rejected as the nonsense that they were. After a moment she realized that her instinctive reaction had been anything but diplomatic, and she made herself apologize stiffly; doubtless the offer had been made in good faith.

"I expected no different. But, if you will accept my counsel, you might be wise to consider more fully before you deny yourself a gift that is offered freely."

"Vulcans do not believe in such things." T'Pol was severely shaken. After the episode of her Trellium-D addiction her emotions had never really returned to her full control, and now on top of a long and draining day having this sprung on her had overset her self-command.

Shiránnor looked at her with faint, rueful amusement. "And you will not concede the possibility that there may be more things in the universe than those your people believe in."

"There is nothing in the universe that has no rational explanation," said the Vulcan stubbornly. "Anything unexplained is simply something for which the explanation has not yet been found. Participating in such a ceremony as you practice would imply my assent to a belief to which I do not and cannot subscribe. It would be dishonest."

"You were cured of your ihaile poisoning by something for which you have no rational explanation. I do not see you seeking out another ihaile in order to be bitten again because you deplore the means of your rescue, and indeed if I did I would be grieved to my tail's tail that our gift was spurned in such a way. I describe the powers I have as the action of a Goddess to whom I owe allegiance, just as you do to your captain; if I were to describe them instead as a merely an ability that my brain possesses, would the effect still not essentially be the same? We are disagreeing over the terms by which we explain something that is _provable_. This is not empty philosophy. However it happens, we hold this ceremony and eleven cycles later, ten empty cradles are filled. You and Trip desire to have a child. We have a ritual that can make that happen. Does it truly matter how?"

T'Pol felt that it did – that it mattered enormously. But the counter-arguments were cogent and forceful. And if the Skaira could truly achieve what Shiránnor said they could – something that Phlox and the rest of science could not….

She looked sideways at Trip. He held her gaze steadily, his own neutral, his mental shields still firmly in place. But he wasn't surprised by what had been said. This had been broached to him beforehand.

"I would like to discuss this with my husband in private," she said at last.

"I expected as much. I will leave you now. I will visit Jonathan first and then I will retire. The world will have to manage without me for a few hours while I catch up on the sleep I have lost, else I shall be talking in my sleep and making even less sense than usual." A brief smile. "But tomorrow the preparation for the ceremony must begin. I must have your decision by then. I am sorry that I can give you no longer." And she slid a couple of pieces of the cake and a handful of fruit slices on to a side plate and padded from the room, plainly intending to finish them in her own room before she slept.

After she had gone there was a long silence.

"Do you seriously believe this is something we should consider?" she said at last.

"The truth? Honey, I have no idea." Her husband sighed. "If Phlox was still soundin' as hopeful … probably not. But after what he said to you the last time…."

"Trip. This is a world where they have no interest in science and ascribe power to divine beings. It is inconceivable that any such 'ceremony' could succeed where advanced scientific technology cannot. For my part, I think that any such attempt would be doomed to fail. We would merely raise our hopes for nothing." She touched his arm gently. "I do not disparage the worth of Shiránnor's offer. I have no doubt that it was kindly meant. But…."

"But you think we oughta refuse." He tried – it was obvious how hard – to keep his voice perfectly neutral. Unfortunately he wasn't quite successful. Vulcan hearing was quite acute enough to detect the small note of disappointment. He wasn't surprised. But he was certainly disappointed.

"We have tried so often and failed. With far better reason to hope than we would have in this instance. I find it – " she swallowed – "hard to face any more disappointment. Perhaps it is time to face the fact that we will not succeed."

"You mean give up."

"There is no shame in admitting defeat when you are, in fact, defeated."

"T'Pol." He leaned forward and took her hands. "You were with us from the start of the voyage. You stuck with us through some of the worst times I could imagine. You were one of the people who made us a team. We wouldn't have achieved half the things we did without you; hell, we wouldn't have survived an hour of that battle at Cheron without you feedin' us the information you did. And you know the reason we got through some of those times? Because we didn't give up. Because we didn't know _how_ to give up. Because even when we were beaten to the floor we still got up and kept fightin'."

"This is different." To her horror, she felt tears trembling on the edge of her lashes.

"No. Basically, it isn't. The only reason to give up is when you're dead. Like Malcolm. And hell, he didn't give up even when he _was_ dead! And we're not dead, T'Pol."

"Trip, this is worse than illogical. It is _absurd. _It is _pointless. _It is _impossible!"_

"Yep. I'll go with that. Any better reason why we shouldn't give it a try anyway? I talked with Malcolm just now. That's just as absurd and impossible, but I did it. – At least, I think I did. And Shiránnor thinks I did. An' somethin' happened because of it, somethin' that wouldn't have happened otherwise." A shadow of a grin crept across his face. "I don't think you have to believe in it. You just have to do it. Let's face it – what do we have to lose?"

"It is illogical to lend credence to superstition by obeying its dictates."

"Okay. Maybe we have to ditch logic for once. Maybe we need to just – let go of certainty. Maybe we need to do what I did when I carried you into that river and just forgot how goddamn stupid it all was. Because if I hadn't done that we wouldn't be having this conversation. So I don't find it that easy to just dismiss the only hope we've got left. Drownin' men clutch at straws, and this is a straw, if it's nothin' better.""

"Phlox may still succeed!" she cried desperately.

"Yes. He may. And what if he doesn't? What then?" His fingers closed around hers. "T'Pol, all I'm sayin' is that if we do this and it doesn't succeed, we're no worse off than we are now. Did you know that every time one of those IVF sessions failed I said to myself, 'that's it, I've had it, no more', but hell, members of the _Enterprise _crew don't do 'givin' up', and I didn't." He paused. "I thought Shiránnor told me in advance so I'd talk you into it, but actually all she wanted me to do was support you while you made your own decision. So that's what I'm tryin' to do. 'Cause this has got to be both of us, t'hy'la. If you really don't want to do it, well … I haven't got the right to make ya. An' I can understand that it must be a lot harder for a Vulcan to even think about doin' something as crazy as this, so if you just can't face it I … I won't blame ya. Ever."

There was a long silence, while too many reactions and too many emotions fought out the battle inside her. Ever since she'd forfeited her previous command of emotion she'd realized exactly why her people regarded it as something that it was necessary to keep under firm control; anything that powerful was a bad master but a good slave...

"Did she… did she tell you anything of what might be involved?" she asked hesitantly. Glancing at her husband, she glimpsed the sort of grin that could make her blush even now. "I mean apart from the _obvious._"

"Not a thing. Guess we just have to take that on trust."

'Trust', in these circumstances, was difficult to come by. There were too many random factors at work.

Abandon _logic? _Every instinct screamed rejection of the thought. Embrace _superstition? _She couldn't. She just couldn't.

Disappoint Trip? That was the least possible thing of all.

She heaved a sigh.

"I am willing to try."

* * *

**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"I am glad." Shiránnor smiled at them the next morning, when they joined her at breakfast and told her their decision. "But you must realize that the men and women who are chosen for the Ceremony will dwell apart from today until the Tenth Hour. They will be separated soon. And in the meantime, I have no doubt that it will prove no more than a formality but because you have not gone through the preliminary examinations I would suggest that you consult the First Among Healers. She has come down with Hoshi, and I spoke with her but now." She turned her head and politely asked Vetherahi to fetch Grenyal.

"Is Hoshi okay?" asked Trip eagerly. "And the baby?"

"Both are well. You must meet the Small One as soon as possible, seeing that you are her _ah'exi_."

"'Ah'exi.' " Jathior was also present, and seeing the two Starfleet officers look blank she grinned and obligingly repeated the word more slowly so that they could hear it correctly. "It is a very ancient Venel custom. If a chick's father dies when it is still in the egg, his lord is the first man to lay hand on the hatchling. By so doing he takes on him the responsibility for the child's welfare thereafter. By touching Ag-nes in the way you did, you made her your _ah'exa_ by Venel law."

"I did?" He could feel a delighted grin spreading itself over his face. "So what exactly does that mean? Do you know?"

The Singer shook her head. "You would have to speak with one of the Lawmasters for that. I know little more than I have already told you. But I think you have a right to be consulted when her marriage is arranged, and you must be satisfied that her future husband is of appropriate status."

"It is to be hoped that her mother has no objection to your unexpected elevation," said T'Pol drily.

"Aw, Hosh' knows me and Malcolm were buddies. She'll be fine." A slightly graver look superseded the grin. "I didn't mean it to happen, but … hell, I'm real glad it did. It makes what I feel kinda … 'official.' "

"On Kerriel it is _very_ official. Once you leave, of course, you may have difficulty establishing your claim." Jathior's tongue peeped out.

"Nope. I'll put Hoshi straight on that right away. Priestess Shiránnor says so and that's good enough for me." He crossed his arms and elevated his chin loftily. "I'm an official, fully-paid-up, card-carryin' … whatever it is."

"That will certainly sound very convincing to the authorities." There was a certain amount of irony in his wife's remark, a fact which did not escape him. Living with him had, for some mysterious reason, caused her sense of humor to develop. Occasionally this was not exactly an advantage.

"Who could imagine any court rejecting so eloquent a plea?" Jathior's tongue came even further out.

"Am I the only one thinkin' I'm bein' picked on around here?" he asked Shiránnor plaintively.

"You may be the only one thinking it is not appropriate." Her tongue came out too.

A tap at the door at that moment heralded Grenyal's fortuitous arrival. The First Among Healers bowed politely to Shiránnor and nodded to Jathior and the two other visitors.

"You summoned me, First Priestess."

"Indeed. Thank you for coming so promptly. I know you are busy, so I will be brief. The matter is this: T'Pol and Trip here have accepted my offer to allow them to participate in the Tenth Hour. I thought it best that you examine them beforehand, since this is part of the normal procedure."

"You have no objection to this?" The dark amber eyes turned to them with nothing but professional interest.

"I guess if it's necessary." He took his wife's hand comfortingly in his. The turn of the conversation had taken the laughter out of the situation, but they had to face this together. "Do we have to go somewhere private?" It was a rhetorical question – it was probably pretty unethical to expect visitors to strip off in front of everyone while they were still finishing breakfast, or at least he hoped it was. Kerriel admittedly had some strange customs, but surely that was beyond the pale even here.

"There is no need. Sit quietly, and I can see all that I need."

To his surprise, Grenyal simply padded to within a little less than a meter of the divan where they were seated, couched down, closed her eyes and became completely motionless.

He glanced at Shiránnor, lifting his eyebrows. She nodded quietly. He sat perfectly still, feeling nervous, but he felt absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. T'Pol's hand lay unmoving in his, though he felt the rigidity of their entwined fingers.

After a moment or two the Healer opened her eyes again and looked at her superior. "First Priestess, may I speak with these two in a room apart?"

Trip hardly heard permission being given to use the Audience Chamber. His whole heart had contracted into a terrified knot. _She's gonna say it can't be done, that we're not suitable. I've talked T'Pol into this for nothing. I should'a kept my mouth shut._

Somehow he made himself stand, and the two of them followed Grenyal into another room, slightly larger, which was bare of furniture save for a low dais with another divan on it, this covered with beautifully marked pelts.

"Please sit." The Healer nodded towards the divan. "There is no-one to see and be offended."

Her examination evidently hadn't been thorough enough to notice that Vulcans are strict vegetarians and have Views about hides, thought Trip. T'Pol moved the pelts carefully from the portion she intended to sit on. He himself hadn't the attention to spare; he just plumped down on the lot, grateful to take the strain off his knees, which had begun to tremble slightly.

Grenyal stood before them, looking seriously from one to the other.

"In my official capacity as Healer, I am disqualifying you from taking part in the ceremony. It would be pointless."

The blow was horrifying. For a moment he couldn't deal with it. After all the heart-searching, they weren't to be allowed to do it anyway! He forced speech into this throat.

"I'm sure you're entitled to do that, but would you mind explainin' exactly _why_ it's pointless?"

"I have every intention of doing so. To take part in the ceremony would be superfluous," her grave expression suddenly took on a glint of momentarily inexplicable humor, "given the fact that your wife is already pregnant."

He thought he was hearing things. He just sat there, gaping at her. It was just as well he was sitting down, because the shaking in his knees had just got a whole lot worse.

"Would you mind repeating that?" T'Pol found her voice first. He could tell she was trying to be calm, to be Vulcan, but she wasn't succeeding very well.

"You are pregnant. Or, to be accurate, your body contains a fertilized egg which is about to implant. I see no reason whatsoever why it should not do so successfully, but to be absolutely sure I recommend that you avoid all unnecessary exercise and stress for the next couple of days. I will monitor your condition hourly until the pregnancy is safely established. This is exactly what I would expect to see after a Tenth Hour has taken place, and I perceive no reason why this should not be just as successful." She gazed enquiringly at their stunned faces. "There is some reason why you are so surprised?"

"Well … we…." They hadn't even suspected it could happen outside of a laboratory. Even inside one it had taken some effort and a great deal of expertise to bring it about. Furthermore, what with one thing and another they hadn't got around to making love for several days now. Except…

… in a _waterfall?_

_Oh, if this gets out they are gonna be soooo mad. They'd probably think it's worse than doin' it in a church._

"Are you absolutely certain?" The tremor in his wife's voice sounded like she was praying to a God that Vulcans didn't believe in that the answer was going to be in the affirmative.

"Yes. Perfectly." A lifted eyebrow rather like one of her own said that the First Among Healers wasn't used to having her diagnoses questioned.

"It's just that we didn't think it was possible." Trip didn't want the Skair to think his wife was being unreasonably skeptical.

An airy wave of the tail dismissed any argument. "It must have been possible, because it has happened. There is no doubt whatsoever."

_She's pregnant. She's pregnant! We're gonna have a baby!_ The tidal wave of joy swamped his initial dismay over the unorthodox arena of operations during conception. Hadn't Shiránnor herself taken his clothes off and pushed him into the water?

_Looks like another miracle for St Trip,_ said a distant British voice in his head, laughing.

_You better believe it, buddy! _He turned his head to meet his wife's eyes, and saw in them the identical incredulous joy, coupled with an instinctive apprehension that would not be fully allayed until they received confirmation from _Hath_'s medic (who would probably not be overjoyed to find he had another pregnant alien to look after). In their shared space he picked her up and whirled her around, laughing, incredulous, delighted beyond words.

"You know, you are gonna be so damned beautiful when you're fat."

"I am relieved that one of us will be of that opinion."

He put one arm around her shoulders. He was suddenly scared almost to touch her, scared that one wrong move would somehow knock that precious egg off course and break both their hearts all over again. With a feeling of terrified exhilaration he put his free hand on her stomach, his touch lighter than a feather. "You behave yourself in there, okay? Your momma and I are gonna look after you." Then he kissed her, and the hot tears ran from between his closed lids whether he wanted them to or not.

* * *

"In cub _already?" _The First Priestess's jaw dropped.

"There is no doubt of it." Grenyal poured herself a cup of wine from the stone flask on a side-table and drank it gratefully. It was early in the morning for such strong stuff, but she felt justified in saluting the news with something rather stronger than water. "The egg has not implanted yet, but it will be simple enough to keep watch to make sure that nothing goes amiss, and indeed I see no reason why anything should." A wry glance at the astonished First. "It seems that the Goddess was indeed capable of sending us a message about eleven couples taking part in the Tenth Hour. Though it was probably not the one Jerhazy expected!"

"No, indeed. It was certainly not the one that I expected either! Who can predict Her actions? May She be always praised!" Shiránnor exploded into laughter. It was by the grace of the Goddess that Jerhazy had been so preoccupied with making sure that the Shrine was put back to rights after the chaos of the birth that she had not left it for some time – by which point Trip and T'Pol were sitting innocently side by side and fully clad in the Cave of the Waterfall. And it was just as well that she had disgustedly stopped checking his memories at the point where he left the Inner Shrine, or she would surely have burst with pious outrage.

"I am not sure how Jerhazy would feel about people honouring the Goddess in Her very Shrine!" The Healer had had far too much experience with the stages of pregnancy not to have put two and two together regarding the time of conception, and she joined Shiránnor in guffawing. "She might think it was taking worship too far – _much_ too far!"

"They honoured the Goddess in the _Shrine?" _Jathior's jaw dropped too.

"In the Holy Fall itself!" Shiránnor confirmed, beaming with unrepentant glee.

"O, Mother of Stars!" The First Among Singers almost went into convulsions at the idea of how the ultra-conservative priestess would react if she ever discovered _that_. Fortunately she herself was not nearly so easily shocked. Another thought occurred to her, and she gurgled, "And what if _Horlath_ found out?"

"Or practically anyone else either!" The First was almost weeping with laughter by now. "But at least it means they will be comforted when I tell them there will only be ten couples at the ceremony after all!"

"So the sky will remain in place. The Mother has made Her will known, and Tradition continues on its way unchanged." Grenyal shook her head solemnly. The effect was spoiled somewhat when she burst out laughing again and gasped, "I only trust She may not have started another one!"

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

"Hoshi!"

She was sitting up in bed, looking down at the little linen-wrapped bundle in her arms and crooning to it softly. At the familiar voice she looked up quickly, and a smile spread across her face.

"Trip!" She extended a hand and he put his into it as he reached the bedside. "How are you?"

"More to the point, sweetheart, how are _you? _And hey, I finally get to meet the little princess!" He leaned down to drop a kiss on her forehead, and took his first look at the sleeping baby.

She smiled, and produced her husband's favorite line. "I'm fine." It probably wasn't true, but it wasn't as much of a lie as it could have been. Then she pushed the embroidered edges of the linen open to let him have a good look at Malcolm's daughter.

The tiny fingers were clenched into fists under the chin. Wisps of dark hair covered the scalp. Surprisingly long dark lashes lay on the soft cheeks.

Even as he watched, she must have been dreaming. A small frown furrowed the brow and pursed the tightly folded mouth.

The resemblance was … well, _horrifying_ might not be the most appropriate word, but it was the one that sprang into his mind first. He had visions of her running checks on her doll's house in a couple of years' time and going into a royal British tizzy because the tea-service wasn't laid out properly.

"She does look like him, doesn't she?" Her mother's voice was laughing, rueful, proud, answering the startled exclamation he'd swallowed.

"She sure does. But she's a whole lot prettier'n he ever was. Must'a got _that_ from her mother." He twinkled at her.

"Trip, you don't get any better."

"I sure hope not." He grinned. "Mind if I hold her for a minute?"

"Go ahead."

Gently he picked the baby up. It no longer hurt like it had, not any more. He would never stop loving Elizabeth, or missing her, or grieving for her, but now he had something to look forward to.

"Agnes Elizabeth Sato-Reed, I'm Charles Tucker the Third. An old buddy of your daddy's. Known to my buddies as 'Trip,' but you can just call me 'sir.'"

Hoshi called him something in response to that which wasn't either 'Trip' or 'sir.' At a guess she'd learned it from Malcolm.

"Hey, little ears listenin' here!" With mock indignation he pressed the linen against the side of the baby's head. Then, sobering, he sat down on the bed. "I've got a few things to tell ya, Hosh."

"Please. I don't remember – well, I don't remember much. Not after the battle." Her mouth trembled ever so slightly, but she controlled it. "They told me the captain's here. And he's getting better."

"Yeah. Shiránnor's lookin' after him. She hasn't changed any. 'Cept that she's the top gun around here now," he added with a grin. Then he went on to tell her everything that had happened since Cheron. He hadn't meant to mention it, but somehow he found himself telling her even about the beach, and her husband sitting lost and divided and desperate on the sand. "If it really happened. Which I'm pretty sure it did. He sure loved you, Hosh," he finished gently.

Her head was up. Her eyes were wet, but it was easy to believe now that she numbered samurai among her ancestors. "I already knew that, Trip."

"It's … it'll all be okay for him now, if it's all right for anybody." His free hand closed on hers. "Now you've gotta look after yourself and little Agnes here. And that reminds me…." He looked down at the baby, who had woken up in the meantime and was looking up at him with the unfocused gaze of the newborn. Her eyes were the darkest blue he'd ever seen. "Yeah, sweetheart, you've gotta pay attention to this too. What happened was, when I came back to the cave you'd just given birth and there was so much pushin' goin' on, what with people wantin' to see, I fell forward by accident. And I … I put my hand on this little lady here."

"I hope you didn't squash her." Hoshi was astonished but amused.

"'Course not!" he said indignantly. "But what I didn't find out till afterwards, was that by Kerriel law doin' that made me her … _ah-_somethin' or other. _Ahexy,_ that was it. Anyhow, what it means is, I'm responsible for makin' sure she's okay, just like her real daddy would be if he could." He looked at Hoshi a little tentatively. "I didn't mean it to happen, hell, I didn't even know it _had_ happened, but I … I'm real happy it did."

"He would be too, Trip. I know I am." She squeezed his hand. "So you're her honorary daddy."

"Yep. I guess that's about the size of it. And while I'm on that subject…." He couldn't help it. The huge grin he'd been holding inside almost split his face in half.

Her eyes were like saucers. She and Malcolm had been helpless witnesses to their friends' grieving too often when the IVF attempts failed; it would naturally amaze her almost as much as it had them to learn that the 'miracle' had finally happened. "Trip! You don't mean….?"

The expression on his face was obviously answer enough. Hoshi sat forward and threw her arms around him. "Oh, I'm so _glad! _But how did it happen? … apart from the obvious, I mean!" she added hastily when his eyebrows waggled suggestively.

"I know you ain't goin' to believe it, but there's this sacred waterfall…"

"TRIP! You didn't!"

He had the grace to blush. "It wasn't my idea!" he protested. "Shiránnor pushed us into it!"

"Trip Tucker, you ought to be ashamed. But you're not, are you?" she added with a grin. "How far along is she?"

Laughing, he checked his chronometer. "Well, 'bout a day. Give or take an hour or so."

"A _day?_" She sat back, chuckling and incredulous. "You're serious? How can you tell, that early?"

"You'd better believe it. We didn't even think about it bein' possible, but Grenyal was checkin' her out and she saw it. Said it was definite, looked fine to her and everythin'. I've left T'Pol lyin' down. The doc said she needs to rest a while longer, just to make sure everythin' carries on fine. Otherwise she'd be with me, but she sends her best. She'll be here herself as soon as she can." He looked down as the baby in his arms started to grizzle. "Hey, now, that's a hungry little girl!"

"Well unless you happen to have any milk on you, Trip, you'd better hand her back. Or believe me, it'll only get worse."

"Damnation. She's even worse'n her daddy wantin' more power for the armory." As a Southern gentleman should, he politely averted his gaze while supply and demand were carefully united. The grizzling ceased abruptly, to be replaced by the sound of busy, contented suckling.

"This'll be T'Pol's and yours to do in … how long, for a Vulcan?"

"The honest truth? I haven't a clue. I never got around to askin'. But however long it is, as long as they're both okay, I'm just fine with it." He put out a finger and gently stroked the infant's steadily working jaw, wondering at the strength and purpose in something so tiny and vulnerable.

"So. From zero to two in one day! Seems like you're going to have to brush up on your parenting skills in a hurry, Trip."

"Sure seems that way. But hell, I'll just pick it up as I go along. And if I want any advice, hey, I'll ask my mom and dad. Everyone else in the family goes to them, so it's not like they're not used to it!"

"You're lucky to have them." Her voice was warm, amused. "And T'Pol's lucky to have such wonderful in-laws."

He opened his mouth to agree, then had a thought that made him close it again and look at her somberly. "I guess from a few things I heard Malcolm say over the years that you're not as lucky, Hoshi."

"Not everybody has parents like yours, Trip. Being an 'infant prodigy' with language didn't exactly give me much chance to bond with mine, and as for Malcolm's – well, the fact he didn't invite his father to the wedding sort of gives it away."

"He invited his mother? I didn't see her there." Though he had the impression that Mary Reed had the sort of personality that might be overlooked in any gathering unless you specifically looked for her.

"She didn't come. He didn't say why, and I didn't ask. I don't think he was really surprised though." She was looking down and stroking the baby's head. "I've sort of had the idea that I might try to contact her when I go back to England."

"You're going back?" he said, surprised. He'd assumed she'd come back to America, perhaps rejoin Starfleet or take up another teaching post.

"Oh, yes." She looked up. She was smiling, but her eyes were luminous. "He left us the house. And there's Great-Grandmother Howard, you see. And the books."

"Hoshi." He took her hand again. "I see you've got all your plans made, though I sure don't recall Malcolm mentionin' any great-grandmothers. But I'm this baby's honorary daddy. If you need any help, whatever it is – wherever you are, wherever I am – you've only gotta call me, or my mom and dad, or any of us. 'Cause that makes her an honorary Tucker. An' once you're in our family, you're in it for good."

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

The vast white wilderness stretched unbroken as far as the horizon in three directions.

Shran was facing the fourth, due South. He'd put the shuttle down on a spur of solid ground that jutted out of the broken clutter of old ice chunks, and now stood at the edge of the sea, watching the waves roll in. Each gray roller bore a crust of ice shards. Further out, in the bay, the pieces were starting to knit together. Very soon this whole area would be a solid sheet.

He breathed happily of the freezing air, his antennae dancing and twitching to its exhilarating bite. He felt at home here, almost as though he were back on Andoria. Although he hadn't intended to make this detour when he'd come down here, he was glad the thought had occurred to him. The Skaira were certainly amazing people and he was glad he'd met them, but the prospect of just hanging around doing nothing had been unpleasant and the prospect of exploring the northern continent had appealed to him.

He hoped sincerely that the journey would prove worthwhile. Although he would never have admitted it openly, over the course of their encounters he'd developed an enormous respect and affection for Jonathan Archer, and seeing him collapse in the way he had had been horrifying. He'd been secretly delighted to have the chance of aiding in his recovery, even if by nothing more than providing the transport; perhaps if it had only been Commander Tucker he'd been dealing with he could have acknowledged his readiness to do so more openly, but his people's ingrained distrust of Vulcans in general had made him reluctant to do so in front of T'Pol, lest she perceive him as 'soft'.

His relief at the discovery that Shiránnor was not only still alive, but was confident that she could help Archer's recovery, had been genuine and heartfelt. It had been obvious that the 'lion-lady', as the humans referred to her, held a deep affection for Jonathan, and that the feeling was intense and mutual. He wondered how this had come about, but suspected he was unlikely to find out. However, he had no objection to keeping the _Hath _in orbit for a while – the crew could use some time to relax after their exertions in the recent conflict, and they would all enjoy time planetside, even if it was to do no more than walk in the pleasant cold air and fill their lungs with the freshness of it. He might try a little spear-fishing. The ingenious and meddlesome pinkskin engineer had even modified the hand-scanner on the shuttle, but the modifications had been limited to mineralogical data. A scan when he'd arrived here had told him that the water beyond the ice was teeming with life.

Feeling the snow crunch beneath his boots, he strolled contentedly along by the water's edge for perhaps half an hour. The sun was low in the sky, hazed behind a thin layer of semi-transparent cloud. He was the only living thing in sight.

But not quite, for presently a huff of exhaled air drew his eyes out to where a tall fin had surfaced among the white shards. He gazed out towards it, shading his eyes against the almost horizontal rays. A sea-creature, and going by the height of the fin it must be a big one. The cloud of vapor hung in the still air for a moment, shot with rainbows by the sunlight before it dissipated. The fin sank and disappeared without a sound, and the great dark body beneath the surface vanished into the depths. If it hadn't been for that brief apparition he would probably never have noticed the strange discolored rock formation on the jagged spit of land behind it. As it was, his gaze in that direction picked it out, and after a startled moment or two he realized he was looking at wreckage. The wreckage, in fact, of some kind of spacecraft.

He cast a newly cautious glance around him, but the landscape was silent and still.

It had been no more than sensible to bring his pistol when he'd come exploring – there was no saying what kind of creatures called this place home. He unclipped it from his belt and walked quickly but quietly towards the crash site. A short distance from it he slipped behind a rocky outcrop and took a cautious survey of the scene.

It was not recent. Layers of snow had fallen and partially entombed it over successive winters; enough had melted in the brief summer to reveal its nature, but soon it would be hidden again. It had been a big ship, larger than _Hath_. It looked as though it had still had some power when it hit, because it had landed relatively level rather than plowing in nose-first, but it had evidently sustained heavy damage during some kind of a fire fight that had taken out its propulsion systems. Five huge stripes like claw marks were visible on the flank that was nearest to him, the ship's electronics bared beneath them like organs behind fatal wounds. There would be no-one living here now. Even if they had enough food supplies to sustain them, the cold would have taken them. Even he couldn't have survived a whole winter with such minimal protection. Part of the ship had split open in the impact, ending its ability to protect the crew from conditions only a little less hostile than those of deep space.

He moved out of cover, a little less wary after this survey. And perhaps half way to the ship he discovered who the crew had been. His boot touched the remains of a body sprawled among the icy stones. Scavengers had been at it, so it was hard to tell at a glance how he had died, but some of the skeleton was still intact.

Nausicaan.

Pirates. He cast a disgusted glance at the ship. Still, he might as well check it out. You never knew, perhaps it would be worth a look. Near the ship he found another body. This too had been partially eaten, but one of the exposed ribs bore the marks of a huge, savage claw-slash. Shran shuddered a little and looked around him, his fingers tightening on the pistol-grip, but nothing moved across the white and gray landscape except the unceasing wind.

There were no other bodies. He made his way to the side of the craft. The door seals had burst during the crash, and the door was easy enough to force open. Nausicaans often took slaves as cargo, and though doubtless there was nothing living left inside, it was worth checking to see if any Andorians might have been aboard. If there had been, enough might have remained to allow for identification later. If nothing else, learning of their ultimate fate might afford grieving relatives closure.

There had been no slaves. Either that, or they had escaped and eventually perished of cold and hunger. The crumpled and misshapen cargo rooms were bare of remains, though in one several boxes of what must have been almost priceless fabrics had been clawed open by wild animals and were now little more than swathes of half-rotted cloth strewn anyhow around the deck plating. The side of this area too had been raked, though it must have been the action of frost and wind that had scored away any traces of burn marks. The low, cold sunshine shone harshly through the slashes in the hull, showing glimpses of the vast bare vista outside. The wind moaned through the ship, both a warning and a lament. As he glanced briefly into a small room, hardly larger than a cupboard, whose door had been ripped off its hinges and now lay partly across the corridor, a stray gleam of sunshine lit on something that twinkled.

He would have passed it by without a second look if the sun hadn't been at that precise angle. As it was, he caught the glitter out of the corner of his eye, and stopped. It came from inside a large box that must have been on one of the shelves before the impact threw it to the floor and broke it open. With a last cautious glance around, he stepped into the room and crouched down to examine the find.

Cut stones. He put a hand into the mess, pulled, and a necklace came out, with two or three other pieces tangled up in it like the most irredeemable junk. Gems of every color and size, clotted together anyhow in his astonished gaze. Another necklace, this one of unbelievable intricacy, bearing what looked like frozen flowers winking and trembling with light; a collar of what must be solid gold by the weight, studded with diamonds of incredible size and clarity; earrings, dripping with fiery amber stones that seemed to burn in his hands, all only a small part of a whole mass of treasure that the average pirate crew could have lived off like kings for the rest of their days.

This would pay for a ship the Andorian government would dream of having in the fleet. Or if, as he suspected from the quality of it, it was a haul whose loss somebody somewhere would have widely advertised, the government would very much enjoy the kudos to be gained from being the agent of its restoration. There was every chance that that kind of enjoyment might be worth giving him back his command, and they needn't think they could be niggardly over the kind of ship they gave him either. This was his _future!_

He retreated to the room he'd seen earlier, pulled out swathes of the fabric, and found some that had been relatively undisturbed. They were consequently in rather better condition than the rest. Nevertheless, they were so fine that they'd never been particularly strong. They certainly didn't resist his concentrated efforts to tear them up. In a very short time he was able to tip the whole sparkling, shimmering jumble into a makeshift sack and carry it out of the wreck. Although the sun was dipping towards the horizon by this time, the short polar day almost over, there was still ample light left to show his way back to the shuttle. Out across the bay a tall dark fin lifted into view briefly and was gone.

Reaching his refuge, he immediately started the engines and took off. On the admittedly extremely remote chance that somebody was searching for the wreck and just happened to arrive at this particular place at this particular time, he didn't plan on staying anywhere near it for a moment longer than necessary. As the shuttle lifted, his newly aware gaze took in other anomalous shapes here and there on the landscape. The Nausicaans' wreck hadn't been an isolated incident. This place was a ship _graveyard. _He suddenly remembered the fear that the pinkskins had felt for the fifth planet – did this one harbor dangers potentially as great? And if so, why had _Enterprise _and _Hath _been permitted to escape unscathed? Because they came with good intentions that someone – or something – had detected? Was it just his imagination running riot, or did those slashes across so many of the hulls resemble gigantic _claw marks?_

He shuddered, and opened the throttle. Even if he found some way to retain the coordinates, he got the distinct feeling that a second visit might not end up as harmlessly as this one seemed likely to. Seeing all these wrecks made him singularly disinclined to push his luck, particularly after it had favored him so spectacularly in the matter of that abandoned hoard. He was ahead, and that was the point at which it was wise to quit.

Time to get out of here.

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**All reviews and comments received with gratitude!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

**Beta'd by Distracted, to whom all due thanks!**

* * *

They stayed there for another three weeks. It was longer than they'd intended to, but somehow the days slid together and there seemed no particular hurry to leave. Even the Skaira seemed to accept them – mostly, though one or two remained obdurately distant. The weather conspired to lure them to linger; day after day was mild and sunny, though the hours of daylight were stealthily shortening. It had been too long since any of them had had the chance to simply lie back and experience living, and while the offer was there they made the most of it. Grenyal in particular was earnest in her wish to continue her supervision of T'Pol's pregnancy – having been the one to discover and announce it gave her a proprietary interest it – and Trip was more than happy for her to do so. Lacking Phlox's expertise, in his view she was certainly the next best thing. His wife, understanding and to some extent sharing his anxiety that nothing should go wrong, acceded readily to his wish to stay until everything was well under way. Another Skair Healer (one of Grenyal's juniors) had confirmed her diagnosis, which went some way toward allaying this anxiety, but it was still not quite as satisfactory as an examination by established, respectable scientific methods.

Events with regard to the pregnancy moved on with reassuring smoothness. They received reports on every aspect of it as soon as the First Among Healers had leisure to visit her most unusual patient and examine daily developments, including the successful implantation. Trip was so excited by hearing every detail that it was all his wife could do to prevent him from running off to tell Shiránnor about it immediately, even though she was reasonably sure that the First Priestess would be even more excited about it than he was, if such a thing were possible.

T'Pol herself remained calm; her happiness did not manifest himself in the effervescent way that her husband's did, but it was nevertheless every bit as great. She did not suffer from morning sickness to any noticeable degree, though she did suffer somewhat from Trip's determination that she ought to eat extra 'for the baby' – she humored him putting extra on her plate, but developed a certain degree of dexterity in slipping the surplus into her napkin when he wasn't looking, to be disposed of later. It was somewhat unfortunate that salad items did not usually figure largely on the menu of the average Skair; they were fond of fruit, however, and at this season the forest contained a superabundance of it. So she contrived, by and large, to maintain a reasonably healthy diet, and found contentment in sitting with Hoshi and watching Agnes Elizabeth Sato-Reed develop and grow more alert. Her ignorance of what a baby was expected to do at what age was comprehensive, but Trip was a fount of information on that score, since the Tucker family boasted children of various ages and was so close-knit that childrearing was virtually a communal activity. He adored tickling Agnes and cuddling her, as well as playing games of peek-a-boo that she was far too young yet to derive any noticeable pleasure from; perhaps he just liked seeing the small, puzzled frown, and was looking for the first hint of a half-smile. Sometimes T'Pol noticed that Hoshi's smile at his antics was a little touched with sadness, but that was hardly surprising.

It being self-evident that Hoshi's emotions would be turbulent, from hormones as well as from everything else, T'Pol had been somewhat careful at first about engaging her in conversation. Emotions were not something that Vulcans were good at dealing with, and she was afraid of accidentally exacerbating the pain that the other woman must be feeling from the loss of her husband; she had only to put herself into Hoshi's place to understand the magnitude of the deprivation. She was unsure whether the subject of Malcolm was one that would be better left alone, but soon observed that Trip, with a wisdom that was beyond his years, suffered no such hesitation. He spoke frankly and freely and naturally about his lost friend whenever it seemed appropriate to do so, treating his memory with affection but no especial reverence; and it was noticeable that the tears this sometimes evoked appeared somehow to leach out a little of the pain of loss. For all of them, and for Hoshi in particular, the long, slow process of healing was beginning.

Shiránnor stepped back from their family circle almost without their noticing. She had, it was true, many duties which she did not and could not neglect – hers was no empty title – but she spent a great deal of time with Jon. After about a week he began walking around the compound with her, saying little at first but looking around with something like the old interest in his surroundings. Hoshi had taken Agnes to show him, but he had seemed so uncomfortable that she was perplexed and hurt. "He didn't even want to look at her," she said afterwards to Trip.

"No, I guess he didn't. Because the way he sees it, he's the man who took her daddy out to Cheron and got him killed," said Trip quietly. "Give him time, Hosh."

And about a week later, when the four of them were sitting beside the lake having a picnic, and the baby was lying on a specially soft skin just where the tips of the trailing tree-branches waved intriguingly in front of her face, a quiet tread announced the captain's arrival. He stopped a few paces away, seeming uncertain of his welcome.

"Jon! Come an' sit down!" Trip looked up and beamed.

Archer looked at the two women, but longest at Hoshi. "Anyone have any objection?"

"None whatsoever," said T'Pol serenely. It was agreeable to see him making progress towards recovery, however slight.

The other woman kept her eyes on the wine goblet she was dangling between her fingers, and said nothing.

"Hoshi?" his voice was very low. "Hoshi, I … I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If you don't want me near you I'll understand. Just tell me and I'll go."

"Oh, Jon." She looked up at him at last. "Come and sit down and have a drink. Malcolm didn't blame you, nor do I. You didn't start the war and you didn't know what he was going to do, and even if you had you couldn't have stopped him. It was just one of those things."

'Just one of those things.' What a way to sum up all that death and devastation, what a sorry précisof the whole damned war. They could all imagine Malcolm saying it, with that characteristic shrug.

Archer folded up cross-legged. One of the younger Skaira, seeing him join the group, came hurrying out with another flask of wine and an extra goblet. He accepted both with a word of thanks, and the youngster flushed and hurried away again. Although the adults had become accustomed to their visitors to the point where they hardly seemed to remember they weren't part of the community, the younger ones (especially the cubs) still regarded them with disproportionate awe.

After a long, awkward silence, Jon was the first to speak. "Where's Shran?"

"Havin' himself a bit of shore leave up north. Been rotatin' the crew down, apparently. Feels just like a home away from home, from what he said." Trip grinned. "I'd have expected him to be gettin' antsy long before this, but for some reason he doesn't seem to mind. Must be gettin' lazy in his old age."

"Hmm. Now that I'd like to see. And you'll have to tell me sooner or later how you persuaded him to come here in the first place."

"Well you'd never believe it, but under all that bluster, he actually does have a heart. Just don't let on I told you."

"He came here for _nothing?_"

"Well, not exactly. Now I come to think of it, there was some mention of us owin' him a ship between us." Tucker grinned again and shrugged. "Though I'm not convinced he's actually expectin' us to pay up anytime soon."

Archer looked thoughtful. "When I get back I'll have to see if I can pull a few strings with the Andorian government. At the last meeting there were a few heavy hints that I was wasted on a starship. If I get an admiral's stripes they ought to be good for something." He cocked an eyebrow. "By the way, mind explaining exactly what Starfleet thinks I'm doing here? I'm sure you'll have come up with an explanation."

T'Pol outlined the story briefly. When she'd finished he shook his head incredulously. "It almost makes me wish I'd been awake to see it. I don't know how you got away with it."

"We haven't, yet," said Trip drily. "But if we can get back there with you up to full speed, we may get away without seein' the inside of a prison cell."

"Why should you be made to pay? I had the message about a possible second attack. It was my duty to investigate it, but luckily for everyone it turned out unfounded. You just came along because I ordered you to, to make running repairs and upgrades to _Hath_ to get the best speed out of her, and T'Pol came along for scientific backup."

"It appears we are not alone in being able to fabricate plausible untruths on demand," remarked the Vulcan, faintly bemused.

"And we can 'collect Hoshi from _Enterprise_' on the way home to Earth." The captain studiously hadn't looked at the baby all this time. Now he glanced almost apprehensively in her direction, and at Hoshi. "May I?"

"Go ahead."

It was plain to them all that the movement took some effort on his part. He looked down at Agnes for a long moment before he lifted her and held her face to face.

The baby had obviously been contented with the view of the leaves and the sky, for she frowned at the change of scenery. She made no complaint, however. She was a quiet child who rarely made a fuss.

"Agnes. I'm your Uncle Jonathan." He took a deep breath. "Your dad was one of the finest officers in Starfleet. But more to the point, he was one of the bravest men I ever knew, and I'm just so sorry you'll never grow up knowing him. But if your mom doesn't mind, I'll come and visit you and tell you about him, because if it wasn't for him none of us would be here. Would you like that?"

The frown faded. The dark eyes studied him curiously. A chubby hand wavered in the direction of his face, and, finding his nose almost by accident, patted it gently.

"Looks like she'd like that fine," said Trip softly.

"And I'd like that too, Jon," Hoshi added in a quiet voice as he settled Agnes in the crook of his arm. She shuffled sideways a little and leaned against him, and after a moment his free arm slipped around her shoulders rather tentatively.

"Just because you've left Starfleet, Hoshi, that doesn't mean you're not part of the crew any more. Once an officer on _Enterprise_, always an officer on _Enterprise_ – that's the way I see it."

"That's fine with me." She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. "Come and see us as often as you like. As long as you don't mind the transatlantic flights."

"You're staying in England?" He was startled, and showed it.

"Yes. For a few years, anyway. It's a long story. Maybe I'll tell you one day."

"I'll look forward to that," he said gently. "Whenever you're ready."

"By the way, Jon." Trip spoke up into a pause that seemed somehow loaded with things that weren't going to be said. "T'Pol and I have some news for ya."

Archer's brow cocked inquiringly again.

With a big grin, the engineer leaned over and patted his wife's stomach. "Phlox is out of a job."

Delight and amazement spread over his friend's face. "Well, congratulations, both of you!" Smiling, Hoshi took the baby back while bear-hugs were exchanged. Even T'Pol was made the recipient of a kiss on the cheek in deference to her Vulcan sensibilities; for a moment she feared that he was going to hug her too, but he restrained himself with an evident effort. "How on Earth did you manage that?"

"On Earth we might not have managed it." Her faint emphasis on the second word made him look rather curious, but she did not enlighten him. If he had not heard about what they had done, as apparently he had not, she did not feel comfortable discussing the fact that they had made love in a supposedly sacred waterfall. Perhaps Trip might choose to be more informative later, in private and in general terms, but that was his decision.

"Though you do realize the ruckus this is going to cause," said the captain with a smile, sitting down again and filling his goblet with the obvious intention of proposing a toast. "I know you said you were going to go public, but this is a hell of a way to do it."

"Well, anyone that doesn't like it can lump it." Trip topped up his own drink and poured water for his wife. "So what're we drinkin' to?"

Archer lifted the cup and looked around at them all. "There's only one toast I can think of that pretty well sums up everything I want to drink to.

"The crew of the _Enterprise _and all their loved ones – past, present and future."

"I'll drink to that."

And they all did.

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	25. The Epilogue

**Disclaimer: Star Trek (plus all its intellectual property) is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended.**

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"It has been good to meet with you again, Jonathan Archer."

Shiránnor looked up at him with a smile, her gladness at his recovery open on her face. He was not cured – not completely; that needed time, and strength, of which he had an abundance – but the work was well begun. Now it was time for him to turn homewards again, and the shuttle was waiting outside. She had chosen, for her own reasons, to bid him goodbye alone and in private.

She had taken her farewells of the others. The parting had been painful and she had pleaded the pressure of her duties to keep it short; for this man it would be far worse if she did not take the measure she knew would be necessary for his sake. Already she could see the terrible foreshadowing of loss in his face, a loss that could, if not dealt with, cast a shadow over the remainder of his life. He must be made to forget his feelings for her, for his own sake. She had not told anybody this; what was between her and Jonathan was intensely personal to them both. The others could guess what they would if they chose.

So – for the last time.

She opened her mind and found him. The joy on his face was still heartbreaking. Through this, over the past weeks, she had loved and nurtured and restored him, but the gulf was still too wide and neither of them could step across it on this side of the Endless Ocean. Therefore….

Her hand brushed gently across his forehead. A final caress.

He straightened up imperceptibly. His expression became polite, almost formal. She did not betray by so much as the twitch of a whisker that the change twisted a knife inside her very soul.

"I'm really grateful for all the help you've given us," he said. "I hope we'll meet again someday."

"I have every confidence of it," she replied. Her voice was equally formal, equally polite. Healer to patient.

He knew she was referring to her belief in the afterlife. He still didn't believe in it, but was too courteous to say so.

"I hope we haven't caused too much trouble coming here."

She let herself smile briefly. "No trouble is too great for a welcome guest."

Outside the sound of the shuttle's engines starting up interrupted what might have become an awkward silence. Commander Shran had limited tolerance for prolonged farewells, although since his arrival that morning his mood had been surprisingly complaisant. Perhaps the holiday up on the ice-lands had been pleasant.

"You must go. Take my blessing with you." Her fingers rested for an instant above his heart. _Let you be healed. _It was the same wish she had made when she had parted from Hoshi, still grieving and heartsick for Malcolm, and about to embark on the rest of her life without him.

She would never know, at least not till they met again beyond the Endless Ocean, but she had hope.

**The End.**

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